


Especially the Lies

by AlphaCygni



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Julian and Jadzia are the bi brotp of my dreams, M/M, POV Julian Bashir, Trope-flavored bubblegum, because me, dancing and pornographic hand-holding, is this how you write fluff?, or is it?!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-08-21 21:46:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16584785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaCygni/pseuds/AlphaCygni
Summary: It started out as a simple lie.He should have known better than to get involved in a lie with Elim Garak.





	1. The Key to Stealth

**_1: The Key to Stealth_ **

 

Julian sped up, crouching a little lower.

The key to stealth, Garak had lectured him on a number of occasions, was to be as natural and as unnoteworthy as the light fixtures. To walk as if you had no head of your own—as if you were but the arm and leg of the whole.

_Not_ —he could practically hear Garak’s long-suffering sigh— _to scuttle gracelessly along the Promenade like some wounded Alderian sandcrab._

In this case, though, Julian couldn’t help but feel his method of scuttling, bent almost in half so as to use the Bolians behind as a screen, might actually work. He was close now, and it was possible, maybe, that she hadn’t seen. If he could just—

“Oh, Doctor Bashir!”

The clatter of heels and the aggressive rustle of taffeta surged once more down the Promenade.

He didn’t know why it surprised him. It had really been that sort of day.

He’d been so _close_ , too. The Infirmary was a mere 12 meters away, and, once there, Julian was fairly certain he’d be able to take up what he could assure the ambassador was an important medical matter. He could force that serious line into his brow, staring at some padd or other, and tell his nurses to keep him updated before disappearing into his office. Even Ambassador Troi would have to defer to the health and wellness of the station…

Wouldn’t she?

“Doctor Bashir, dear!”

He cringed. _Dear_. A word usually so charming. So warm.

Today it felt like the four-letter word it well and truly was.

 “Doctor Bashir!”

God, he hated dignitary-sitting.

He allowed himself an entirely different four-letter-word under his breath before he straightened to face her. “Yes, Madam Ambassador? Is there something I can do for you?”

“Oh, you’re such a slip of a thing…I thought I’d lost you.” She puffed slightly from the pursuit. “And I’ve told you, it’s Lwaxana, dear. Real dignitaries don’t insist on fuss and titles.”

If the constant stream of requests and complaints and innuendos he’d received in the last twenty-six hours wasn’t fuss, he wasn’t entirely sure what qualified. “Of course. _Lwaxana._ Is there something I can help you with?”

She gave a little pause, watching him, and he felt his entire body clench.

Ambassador Troi had visited the station twice before, but thanks to Odo, Julian had been spared the majority of her attention on his last stint as Liaison Officer. It was a blessing he hadn’t fully appreciated at the time. Betazoids and dark secrets were a dangerous combination, and each time she looked at him with those beetle-black eyes, every part of him locked down, mind frantically _not_ thinking.

“Don’t be so tense, dear. You’re hardly the first young man to have such thoughts.” She gave his shoulder a reassuring pat, setting off a rolling motion of taffeta and lamé that sounded vaguely like a crashing wave. “I was just going to ask the best place to get a decent _ponala_. These Cardassian replicators are positively useless! All I wanted was a drink to go with my _prax_ -and-cabbage salad, but the darned thing kept giving me some yellow slime that resembles _ponala_ about as much as I resemble a Ferengi.”

If she tried to lure him back to her quarters to “fix her replicator” he was going to demand Sisko find someone else. “The personal replication units have a more basic menu than those in the Replimat or Quark’s. I’m sure either of those offer a wide variety of—”

“Do you like _ponala_ , Doctor Bashir?” The question sloped in a definite direction.

“Well…I…” He didn’t. It tasted like sour custard and had much the same consistency. But _ponala_ was the Betazoid drink of choice and a point of planetary pride, so he scraped together what he could of diplomacy. “It has a very _distinctive_ flavor.”

“Clearly, you just haven’t had the right mix.” She answered his honest opinion rather than the one he’d voiced. Had she read that? Or was he merely that transparent? If he slipped, would she—

_Stop, Julian. Stop._

“Come and join me for a bite at the Replimat. I’ll spice a _ponala_ so delicately you’ll never want another of those insipid Klingon coffees again.” Her arm had somehow become threaded through his, and she was already directing him that way…

He cast about but found only pitying faces and a definite lack of eye contact from all who passed.

The door in front of them was a sudden inspiration. “Um… actually, Ambassador, I have an appointment.”

She turned on him again. “Captain Sisko assured me that you and Ensign Boday had been cleared of your duties to focus exclusively on the summit.”

He wanted to ask why she wasn’t inviting Ensign Boday out for _ponala_ but bit his tongue. _Oh, to have a transparent skull…_ “Cleared of _Starfleet_ duties. I’m afraid my lunch plans are with a friend. Perhaps Constable Odo could join you..?” _Sorry, Odo._ He would make it up to the Constable somehow.

“Oh, Odo’s locked away in some interrogation.” She made a dismissive gesture. “It seems there was some threat made…? At least that’s what the nervous little Ferengi from the bar told me.”

Well, that explained why he was getting such a large share of the ambassador’s rather focused attention. Odo had gotten _him_ first. And he’d been smart about it. Used his resources. The ambassador couldn’t read Rom to know if he was lying thus leaving the Constable free to lock himself in his office and “interrogate” a good book, no doubt. Julian would have to remember to make use of Quark next time he needed an alibi. Or perhaps…

Could Betazoids read Cardassians? He seemed to recall something about touch telepathy not being effective on most Cardassians, but…

He glanced at the door in front of them again, and, feeling the ambassador’s grip on his arm tighten, reached out and clicked it open in panic.

There were a few seconds of eye contact, blue on hazel, during which Julian hoped he was able to communicate his desperate plea without betraying it in his thoughts.

Something must have gotten through. “My dear doctor, what a pleasant surprise.” He smiled— _that_ smile, noticing pointedly the spot where Julian’s arm squeezed against his companion’s. “And you’ve brought a guest, I see…?”

“A surprise?” he covered quickly. “Have you forgotten our lunch appointment, again, my dear Mister Garak?” He was overdoing it, overcompensating, like those awful people that spoke more loudly when the UT was switched off, hoping that volume would work when semantics broke down. _Come on, Garak…_

A tick-tick-tick as Garak appeared to catch up. “Of course, lunch… I’ve been so busy with commissions I didn’t notice the hour. I do hope you haven’t replaced me in the meantime?”

The tilt of the head and the slight note of regret were utterly convincing. The cavalry had arrived! _Garak I could_ kiss _you_. “Oh, no, not at all! I’m ready whenever you are!”  

Ambassador Troi made a small noise, and, when he turned to decipher whether this was a _Doctor Bashir you’ve just earned yourself a formal reprimand for offending a Federation dignitary_ noise or not, he was surprised by the warmth of her expression. Her usual effusiveness was gone, replaced by fond amusement and a look of understanding. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I didn’t realize your plans were with a… _friend.”_

The shape of the word was undeniable. Its elongated vowel. Its hint of hum.

She thought…she thought he and Garak were…involved?

_Well, you_ were _thinking you could kiss him._ Had she read that?

He opened his mouth to deny it, but some instinct gave him pause. Did he really want to correct her? It was either this or drinking _ponala_ and dodging innuendo and faux pas for another hour. And her arm had already started to unwind from his…

“Oh, yes, well…he doesn’t like it when I make a show.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. He wasn’t brave enough to look at Garak. If he was going to make this work, he was going to have to take his thoughts along with him.

She didn’t respond, looking at him a bit more closely.

_In for a penny, in for a pound, Bashir…_

He reached over and locked his newly-freed arm with Garak’s, leaning their shoulders together with what he hoped was a besotted look. Unfortunately, when he clasped their hands, fingers through fingers, Garak jumped visibly as though he’d gotten a shock. _Oh, bollocks._ He should have remembered. It had been in one of those novels. Lacing fingers was some form of Cardassian snogging, the webbing between an erogenous zone. _You’ve just shoved your tongue down his throat, of course he’s shocked…_

But Garak smoothed over the reaction with ease. “I simply can’t get used to these overt human displays of affection. I do hope he hasn’t scandalized you, madam.” With his best customer service simper.

Smooth, so smooth. _Oh, Elim Garak, bless you and your Obsidian-Order trained instincts._ The squeeze he gave Garak’s hand was genuinely affectionate.

 “I assure you, it takes a great deal to scandalize me, Mister…?”

The insistent tap of a thumb against his. _Oh, oh, that’s my line!_ “I—I’m so sorry, where are my manners? Madam Ambassador, this is Garak, our resident tailor here on the Promenade. Garak, this is Ambassador Lwaxana Troi—“

“Daughter of the Fifth House, holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed,” she finished matter-of-factly, offering forward a hand. Garak took it with a grace Julian envied in that moment. “And I must say, I can’t believe I’ve never taken the time to peruse your shop, Mister Garak. Clearly you have an excellent sense of style.” She gestured up and down the tunic Garak was wearing, a rather bold combination of three shades of gold and a sudden (and, in Julian’s opinion, totally unnecessary) stripe of patterned print.  Though, he allowed, taking in the ambassador’s own glowing golden dress and complementary hair, their styles might be more than a bit compatible.

The ambassador seemed to agree, having left Julian by the wayside entirely. In fact, Julian got the distinct impression that if he and Garak hadn’t been half-embracing, the ambassador might have found her new _ponala_ partner. “I don’t want to keep the two of you, but I _will_ be needing something to wear to the closing gala on Bajor. Something bright for the end of winter, I think. Do you have something that might suit me?”

“‘With taper-light to garnish the beauteous eye of heaven is wasteful and ridiculous excess,’” he quoted airily with a ludicrous little half-bow.

Julian wanted quite badly to laugh, but for once he controlled himself. _Good to know he’s found a use for that “facile Shakespeare” after all…_

The ambassador did laugh, bright and absolutely pleased. “Well, while that certainly may be, I’ve never been one to turn my nose up at a bit of ‘ridiculous excess.’ Perhaps I can come by this afternoon? Around 16:00?”

“I’ll have a number of garments for your consideration, madam. And if you know of any others in need, I hope you’ll recommend my humble establishment.” As he spoke, Garak shifted until his arm was draped casually around Julian’s waist. They pressed even closer, shoulder to knee, and, light but firm, fingertips grazed the top of his hip.

It took everything Julian had not to let his eyes goggle.

How did Garak do it? Make it all appear so effortless, so natural? It was as if Garak truly had been expecting a lunchtime date with his gauche human lover. He had _become_ the lie, and Julian had to admire it.

Trying to keep up, Julian leaned in affectionately, wearing the most genuine face and thoughts he could. Which wasn’t as hard as it might have been, he had to admit, feeling Garak’s sturdy hands cupped against his waist, thumb pressing just so against the small of his back.

“Yes, well, I won’t keep you boys any longer. I can tell you’re… _eager_ to get on with it.” She gave Julian a rather obvious look, glancing down at the spot Julian had just been thinking of so acutely.

He was blushing—blushing like a sodding teenager. It would help sell the lie, he knew, but he couldn’t help feel it might make Garak think—

_Might think what? That you’re oddly enjoying the feeling of his arm bracing your back?_

_Stop it, Julian. Stop._

If Garak was thinking anything at all, however, it didn’t make it past that smile. “I look forward to seeing you this afternoon, madam.”

How _did_ he do it? He was absolutely unreadable. Was _he_ uncomfortable? Where was his blush? When his eyes glanced against Julian’s, they looked for all the world like a man giving a moment’s fond reassurance to his lover. Garak had set the truth aside—his own mind gone—and was now but the arm and the leg of the lie.  

The key to stealth indeed. Un-bloody-canny.

“Oh, and Doctor Bashir?” Ambassador Troi had turned back just as the door hissed open.

Had she sensed something? _Ridiculous brain, can’t you keep quiet for just a_ —

“You _will_ be attending the closing gala on Bajor yourself, won’t you?”

Gala? No one had mentioned a gala. Then again, Commander Sisko had a way of keeping the goriest details of these assignments to himself until there was no backing out… “Er, I—”

“Of course you are. I do hope you’ll bring your plus one, here.” She gave Garak a little nod. “Events like that always benefit from more men of style and poise.”

Oh. Oh, this was going in a direction he hadn’t anticipated. The shuttle was spinning out… _come on, Julian…bring it back…quit gawking and give her some excuse…stop thinking! Stop thinking!_

“We’d be delighted, madam,” Garak said with another one of those little half-bows. “I have a formal _mijast_ I’ve been dying to debut.”

“Wonderful!!” she exclaimed with almost theatrical relish. “It’s a date!” The doors closing seemed to punctuate the thought very fully.

_It’s a date_.

Once in his first year of med school, on a trip to a teaching hospital on Jupiter Station, Julian had made the mistake of asking Cara Castillo out to dinner. He’d asked five minutes into their flight, and, after she’d very awkwardly turned him down, they’d had to sit together in the tight space of the shuttle for the next hour and a half. They’d both replicated so many teas and raktajinos to keep occupied that they’d exited the shuttle in a state of extreme jitter.

Looking up at Garak now, he felt the same discomfort. The same jitter.

When this day had begun, he and Garak had been…friends, he supposed. Friends who had lunch most weeks, though, Julian admitted, it _had_ been a few since they’d done even that. Miles had wanted to go to the holosuites last week ,and there’d been that paper he was co-authoring, and, on top of it all, he still hadn’t finished the abysmal play Garak had recommended.

And now, they were here: two men bound to either admit that they’d lied to a Federation dignitary or pretend to be lovers for all to see.

Julian didn’t know how to tackle that subject. He didn’t even know where to begin.

And he was finding it hard to think with that firm arm still wrapped around him.

Luckily, as usual, Garak had no trouble. “So, Doctor. I suppose we should…have some lunch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So whilst working on [These Lifeless Things](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15294315/chapters/35481987), I missed writing Garashir and needed something light and fluffy to balance out the mooooodiness of that fic. 
> 
> And so...this. Expect nothing more or less than bubblegum.
> 
> Ever the contrarian, I'm taking November off from writing (NoNoWriMo as my better half has aptly termed it), but luckily I have already written this in its entirety. The "chapters" are a bit short, but I plan to post one each weekend until I have no more.
> 
> Hope it entertains someone other than me. :) As always, thanks to anyone who takes the time to read/kudos/comment! And of course please do find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/alphacygni-8) if that's your sort of thing!  
> -AC


	2. The Thousand Faces

**_2: The Thousand Faces_ **

Julian couldn’t have said how many times he and Garak had sat across the lunch table from one another. As soon as they had plates between, conversation had always paired perfectly with gustation, and they’d never once struggled for words. In fact, they more often struggled to find a satisfying end when the time came to return to work.  On more than one occasion, Nurse Jabara had been forced to comm him with a reminder about an after-lunch appointment.

Today, however, there was no danger of losing track of time. If anything, each painful second was catalogued, mapped, and endured in its full and excruciating detail. All the while, Garak’s face kept its usual flat agreeableness, looking as if this lunch were any other, merely transplanted to Julian’s quarters. They couldn’t risk running into the ambassador again, Garak had pointed out, and so Julian had brought them here. Here to his little dining table and his replicator and a space that really was _his_.

It was odd, sitting _here_ with Garak. Everything felt, suddenly, much smaller than when he’d left that morning.

And much messier.

 “I…do you…” He tried not to notice Garak noticing the pair of dirty trousers he’d thrown over the couch or the two dingy socks abandoned unceremoniously in the middle of the floor. “Would you...like some springwine as well? I’m sorry, I didn’t think to ask.”

“You don’t normally favor alcohol with lunch, Doctor.”

“Yes, well, if you’d had to deal with Lwaxana Troi for the last twenty-six hours, you’d be drinking, too. And it’s past noon, so you can belay that tone, if you please.”

“I wasn’t aware humans had a timetable for that sort of thing.” Garak sipped primly at his tea, and they lapsed horribly back into silence.

Garak was trying to force him to say something—trying to wait him out. _He’s going to sit and chew and cast vaguely disapproving looks at my décor until I can’t take it..._ Well, two could play at that game _._

The crunch of spinach and the squish of _s’sast_ filled the room for what seemed a lifetime.

Eventually, though, Julian won.

“I take it you haven’t finished _The Thousand Faces of Legate Haras’st_ , then?” Garak said.

“ _The Thousand Faces of Leg—_ Garak?! Are you joking?”

“I’m not, no. I’m making conversation since you appear to have forgotten how.”

“We can’t…Garak, we have to talk about…“ All he could manage was an empty gesture between them.

The other man arched his brow in the obvious question: _Yes, Doctor…what is it we have to talk about?_

_Damn him_. It wasn’t victory at all. He’d been outmaneuvered, as usual.

 He sighed, waving his white flag and settling on, “What are we going to do about Ambassador Troi?”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m planning to sell her a very expensive A-line gown of violet Rigelian crepe.

“Garak.”

 “Unless you think she’d be more amenable to silver? Violet _is_ a bit overdone at these things, but—”

“I don’t bloody care what color gown you sell her! What are _we_ going to do?”

“I was serious about that formal _mijast_. It’s been languishing in my closet for years. I’m sure I can make something complementary for you—”

“I wasn’t talking about what to wear, Garak.”

“Of course. You’ll probably required to wear that hideous uniform. A shame. My _mijast_ has a blue inset that—”

“Are you seriously suggesting that we _go_?”

“It’s been some time since I left this station for anything other than business. And while I can’t imagine Bajorans throw the most engaging parties, the food is bound to be better than the replicated and stasised swill available here.”

Julian used the excuse of a large bite to pause and consider this reaction. He’d assumed Garak would object to having this situation forced on him. At having to pretend some sort of relationship. At the very least he’d assumed Garak would make more of a show of teasing him about it. Instead the man was pushing _s’sast_ around his plate and acting as if this was all some tedious preamble to a more engaging discussion about sodding Legate Haras’st.

“So…you’re not bothered by having to pretend that we’re…” He searched for the coolest and least intimate euphemism. _Partners?_ No, too committed. _Boyfriends?_ No…just, no.

“…Lovers?” Garak offered.

 “Er…yes. I suppose.”

“Doctor, I’ve pretended to be _many_ things in my life. Pretending to be your lover ranks as one of the more potentially enjoyable.”

Julian regretted having taken a sip of springwine as it bubbled and coughed its way up his nasal cavity.

“I mean nothing untoward by that, I assure you. Merely that I stand only to gain from such a perception. You’re a desirable man with a respected position.”

Julian blinked. “I—well…thank you, Garak. That’s…that’s kind of you to say.” And spectacularly awkward to hear.

 “Kindness isn’t a consideration: I’m merely stating facts.” Indeed, there was no warmth in his words. He might as well have been talking about Legate Haras’st, eyes moving coolly from his tea to Julian. “Of course, I can understand that _you_ might be uncomfortable with it. I’m far less desirable in comparison.”

He set down his wine glass quickly. “No, Garak, that’s not…I mean…well, I am a bit uncomfortable, but it’s not because—I mean you’re—” _No, you can’t say desirable!_ —“You’re a…catch, yourself, Garak.” _By the stars of the Federation that was terrible._ He took a deep breath. “What I mean is I’m not uncomfortable with it because of _you_ , Garak. It’s not…personal.”

“Ahh. You’re uncomfortable because I’m male.”

“Well…” Actually, it wasn’t that, either. It wasn’t as if Julian had never been with another man. It had been awhile, true, but he simply hadn’t met a man who’d done it for him since his Starfleet Medical days. “Well, no. I’m not particularly uncomfortable with that. It’s just…that we’re…we’re _not_. Lovers, I mean.”

“Are you suggesting you’d be more comfortable if we made love?”

“What? No!”

That smile again, damn him. “Joking, Doctor. Only joking.”

Julian could feel the color in his neck and cheeks. This was ridiculous. Why _was_ he so uncomfortable with it? Garak had taken it in his stride: why couldn’t he? It wasn’t as if the idea in and of itself was so outrageous. But Garak…well…he didn’t think of Garak in that context. It was…odd. It made him…nervous. Or…confused? Something.

How on earth could he explain _that_ without sounding like an utter twat?

Garak seemed to sense this. “Doctor, if the situation is distressing to you, might I suggest you invent some reason to absent one or both of us from the occasion? You’re a doctor, after all. I could very well be coming down with a case of that Bajoran Spotted Fever that’s been going around…” He made an elaborating motion with his hands. “I understand you aren’t the most accomplished when it comes to such deceptions, but I think even _you_ might be capable of coming up with a fitting tale.”

Julian hid his mouth behind his glass, sure to look down into its depths as the thought crossed his mind. _You might be surprised how comfortable I am with deception, Mister Garak…_

Of course, Garak was right. He doubted he’d be able to get out of attending, but it wasn’t as if he couldn’t make up some excuse for Garak. Garak could cough or sniffle a few times that afternoon, and Julian could mention it the next time he saw Ambassador Troi. They had time to give the lie a nice foundation, even. “Can she read you, do you know?”

“Oh, I very much doubt it. I’ve had extensive training in blocking psionic techniques.”

Julian scoffed. “Teach you that during your tailoring apprenticeship, did they?”

“I wouldn’t want my customers to read my thoughts whilst taking their measurements, certainly.”  That smile again. Few things in Julian’s life could both annoy and excite him quite like that damned smile. But it was good to know. If he could count on Garak for one thing, it was pulling off a lie, and if his mind couldn’t give him away, well then, they might be home free.

He took another sip of springwine, feeling himself relax a little. “And…you won’t be too disappointed?”

Garak quirked an eyeridge.

“I mean because you wanted to get off the station. Obviously.”

Garak shrugged as if the matter was of no consequence either way. “I leave the decision to you, Doctor. I can be the infirm, not fit for human company—“ Garak paused, and for a moment, his face transformed and he genuinely appeared seconds away from retching _s’sast_ all over the table between them. As a doctor, Julian could definitively say, _that_ was a very convincing impression of illness.

“Or, for one glorious night,” Garak continued, “I can be your lover.”

The second transformation was just as convincing, though, honestly, Garak’s face barely changed. Blue eyes suddenly hit, hot and wanton, and ridges turned sharp. Predatory. Beneath the table, Julian was acutely aware of the natural spread of the other man’s legs. Somehow, without moving, every line of that body spoke of possession and touch and desire.

Julian’s breath petered out, clenching in his throat and, somewhere deeper, something more desperate clenched in response.

Then just like that, it was all gone, and Garak was the simple tailor once more, taking a fussy little bite of _s’sast_ and offering only an expectant blank.

Julian swallowed. What was _that?_ Oh, he knew what Garak was doing. But what…what was _he_ doing?

For a moment…for a _brief_ moment he had…

He hadn’t wanted it to be a lie. He’d wanted to see what happened next.

“Just tell me which will serve best,” Garak said over a bite. “‘One man in his time plays many parts.’”

Julian hoped the space between the end of Garak’s sentence and the desperate scramble to find his voice had been shorter than it seemed. “I—I’ll let you know.” Unable to find anything else to say on the topic, he clutched for the familiar. “And…don’t think I haven’t noticed that, for a man who claims to loathe Shakespeare, you seem to have a lot of quotes on hand.”

“For a man who claims to enjoy comedy, you sure have taken your time with _The Thousand Faces._ ”

“Garak, you can stop. I _know_ you’re lying.”

Garak gave him a look that said more than enough.

“Haras’st is an _assassin_! The whole play is him travelling from city to city killing. There’s no way even Cardassians could find that funny.”

A disappointed sigh. “I was afraid you might say that.”

They spent the remainder of the lunch hour falling back into the comfortable rhythm of disagreement.

It was a relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the slight delay in posting. My family kept me busy with early Thanksgiving preparations, and they don't seem to respect the sanctity of the posting schedule. 
> 
> I was so glad to see how many people enjoyed this premise/chapter one: hope this is a worthy follow-up!
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who kudosed and commented and shared on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/alphacygni-8). Please continue to do so as you feel moved!


	3. Context

**3: Context**

 

Julian wouldn’t have believed it possible, but for once, he was genuinely grateful for Ambassador Troi’s arrival.

She didn’t seem aware of the scene she’d intruded upon: Julian’s frown and furrowed brow, the bottle Odo held in grumpily crossed arms, their tense stance across the desk from one another. She merely floated past, drawing the constable into an enthusiastic embrace. “Odo! You _dear_ man. I _knew_ I’d find you cooped up in here with that look on your face!” She tweaked at his nose in a way that made Julian clear his throat. _Just in case whatever she tweaks next is less innocent._

“And Doctor Bashir.” She didn’t turn.

 _Of_ _course_ she would know he was there, seen or not. He had to remember that she would know he was there and that he was suddenly nervous and that he’d been wondering—not for the first time—just how… _things_ …would even work with Odo. Anyone with half an imagination had to admit there were worlds of possibility—

“I thought you’d be at cocktail hour in the wardroom, Doctor…?” The look she gave him said she’d been wondering about _things_ herself and was hoping to find out more if he would kindly _get out_.

“Yes, well, I was headed that way, in fact, but there’s been some…disagreement about the legality of the ale brought by our Romulan friends.” Disagreement was an understatement. They’d been treading the same contentious circle for the last half hour. He’d tread it before that with the deputy at the airlock.

Seeming to remember where they’d left off, Odo straightened and attempted to resume some air of authority. “Romulan Ale is prohibited in the Federation, Doctor Bashir. I can’t allow it to be distributed here.”

“This a _Bajoran_ station, and the government of Bajor is heading the summit.”

“Along with the government of Betazed, which, last I checked, is part of the Federation.”

“Oh, is that all?” Ambassador Troi laughed and plucked the bottle from Odo’s hands. “Well, then, as representative of the Betazoid government I say that ‘when with Romulans…’” She handed the bottle to Julian with a smile.

He froze.  Oh, it couldn’t be that easy, could it?

Emotions twitched in miniscule along the constable’s face as he met the ambassador’s bright expression. Annoyance, yes. And frustration, as usual. But also…what was that? Something uncharacteristically soft. Something that compromised—that sighed and allowed and _oh, very well_ ed _…_

If Quark had any sense, he would offer the ambassador her weight in latinum for mediatory services. Julian had never seen anyone earn such a quick and easy surrender from Odo.

A trademark harrumph. “If I find any of that ale in Quark’s possession, Doctor…”

“Oh, do try to relax, Odo, dear,” Ambassador Troi cooed, kneading at the constable’s shoulders. “You’re so tense!”

“I cannot _be_ tense, madam. I don’t have any musculature.”

“Well, for a man made of goo you’re surprisingly inflexible.”

Julian chuckled, but, at Odo’s disapproving frown, hid it behind a cough.

“You should join us for cocktails. Relaxation and music…” she hummed.

“I’m really very busy here.” He shifted several padds around on his desk to illustrate. “The arrival of all these dignitaries and their coteries is quite a…headache.”

If the ambassador caught the implication, she gave no sign. “Of course, you poor thing. Doctor, you run along.” She sat on the desk in front of him, sweeping aside the padds cavalierly. “I’ll stay here with the constable for a bit. Help him catch up on…business.” Sequins clicked against glass in ellipsis.

 _And that’s_ certainly _my cue..._ He almost felt guilty abandoning the constable until he remembered the man had spent the last thirty minutes sniping at him about a beverage every cadet at the Academy had gotten hands on at one time or another. Besides, Odo had dodged his ambassadorial duties for almost two days, whereas Julian had lived and breathed diplomacy since Ambassador Troi had sauntered through the airlock and demanded his help with her dozen suitcases.

He was due for a bit of a break.

“Ah, Doctor!” Odo was looking at his desk as though a large Torelian cave-bat had taken up residence there. “On…on second thought I _should_ check in on the security arrangements in the wardroom. It—it can’t hurt to be thorough.” He squeezed into an unnaturally thin shape as he navigated his way around her and out the door.

Julian had a foot on the promenade himself before the look on the ambassador’s face caught him and reeled him back. He knew that face, and empathy hit him, sharp as a _bat’leth_ to the gut.

It was the smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes. The stiff posture of a wound concealed. How many times had he been on the receiving end of this exchange? How many times had it been him watching someone shuffle away with a stuttered excuse and an awkward grimace? Hell, he’d spent so much of that first year looking at the back of Jadzia’s head that he could now read her mood from the tilt and sway of her ponytail alone.

Sure, Ambassador Troi was a bit…much. Overbearing and overeager and oblivious.

But this particular look… well, that he understood.

“I—I’m sure the constable really is quite busy,” he tried lamely, offering his arm in escort.

Her smile resumed at least a bit of its brightness.

As they walked arm-in-arm toward the wardroom, admiring the flags of the attending worlds hung in a multicolored marquee overhead, he tried to remember the ways friends had consoled him when one of his love interests wasn’t interested. Something of them might be adaptable to the ambassador. A drink and a holosuite session, maybe. He could work to keep her schedule full, maybe find her a lunch partner. Morn was up for the ambassador’s brand of endless nattering, though he honestly couldn’t say who’d he’d feel more sorry for in that setup.

“There’s no need for that, Doctor, though I appreciate the thought. I’ve been around long enough to know Odo isn’t passionately in love with me.”

 _Damn_. _Do try to_ remember _, Bashir_.

“But Odo does _care_ , and—well, maybe you’re too young to recognize it, but romance isn’t the only kind of intimacy that counts. The two of us _know_ each other. _Understand_ each other, and _that’s_ the essence of love. The older one gets, the more that…” She trailed off, giving his arm an affectionate pat. “But the last thing you need is a lecture about love. You seem _more_ than intimate enough with that handsome tailor of yours.”

He’d been a breath away from laughing _pardon?_ before he remembered. The _p_ transformed into a feeble half-trill of happiness. “Pahhh…yes…yes, we are, uh, very lucky. In…that.”

“We should invite him for cocktails as well. I’d love to hear his opinion on the Bolian ambassador’s sense of…style, if that doesn’t stretch the word too far.”

He had no doubt—no doubt—Garak would have an opinion. In fact, Garak’s opinion had been his first thought when he’d seen the Bolian sashay through the airlock dressed in blue velvet and fur, head to toe. The shining blue cloth on shining blue skin had been dizzying and then nauseating and then, well, entertaining, as he’d watched everyone who passed make the same disoriented stumble.

No, Garak wouldn’t have an opinion—he’d have a hemorrhage.

But it was too risky, and, luckily, there was a convenient excuse. “I can imagine the tirade, but it’s still retail hours, and Garak takes his business—”  

Julian could only assume that at some point he’d seriously offended the Prophets or the Blessed Exchequer or whatever force shaped the quantum tilt-o-whirl of fortune because, at that exact moment,  Garak emerged from his shopfront directly in their path.

“Mister Garak!” Ambassador’s Troi’s voice carried, as it always did.

Though he gave no obvious sign of it, Julian could sense even Garak had been caught off-guard. The turn of his head was slower. More measured. “Ambassador. Doctor.”

It was his line, and he knew it. He knew it and yet all he registered was that unmistakable feeling of stepping to find empty air rather than solid ground. “Uhh—“  

They should hug, shouldn’t they? Or kiss, probably. But they couldn’t _kiss_ on the promenade in full view of the replimat and the gym and anyone lucky enough to be looking down from the Klingon restaurant. Maybe…just a warm greeting. _What a nice surprise_ or _I’m so glad we ran into you_ or _I was just passing by_?

 _Probably you should say_ something, _you twit_.

“Garak.”

  _Oh, brilliant. Master of deception, you._ “You’re…you’re not…closing up so soon?” He hoped something in his tone conveyed how much he meant _please just go back inside ‘til we’ve passed_.

Garak sniffed. “I’m afraid so.”

“What serendipity!” Ambassador Troi exclaimed, abandoning Julian’s arm for Garak’s almost instantly.  “Join us for cocktail hour. There’ll be conversation and hors d’oeuvres and some beverages of questionable legality.” She gestured to the blue bottle enticingly.

“An invitation it pains me to decline, but I’m afraid I’m not feeling well.”

Garak’s cough had a distinctly hacking quality, and Julian tensed with a physician’s practiced concern. There was a gravelly scratch in the throat, voice lowered by half. But his pupils weren’t—

Oh, bollocks. How had he forgotten already?

 _I’m glad one of us is good at this._ How Garak had thought of that in the time it took to exchange greetings, he would never understand. The man’s facility with lies was terrifying, really, if he thought too hard about it, but—

 _Julian. Stop. Thinking. About. It._ He had to _remember_.

“You didn’t sound well yesterday either,” the ambassador chided. “What’s the use of dating a doctor if you don’t get served first at the infirmary?”

“As if I’d ever get him in the infirmary,” Julian sighed, congratulating himself on finally catching up with the play. He put a hand to Garak’s temple. “You’re flushed, and your pulse is racing.”

“You have that effect, _p’rimit_.” Julian had heard Garak speak the phrase often enough in Standard to recognize it. The Kardasi word was given the same stretch. The same rhotic wink. _My dear—_ minus the _doctor._  “But not to worry. It’s merely a chill, natural given the brutal temperature of the station. I’ll excuse myself to the warming array in my quarters, if you’ll forgive my discourtesy.”

Ambassador Troi continued on with a few more admonishments about overwork and advice on the restorative powers of _ponala_ , but Julian wasn’t listening. His focus had fallen on the hand Garak had held up to him, palm out.

It was the traditional Cardassian gesture of fondness, he knew. Cardassians pressed palms in greeting and farewell, but only when they wished to express affection. Not romantic affection, necessarily, but affection of any sort—between close friends, courting pairs, family. Julian had mentally slotted the gesture somewhere between _bises_ and a hug, though Garak insisted the custom of pressing faces or bodies in public was too vulgar to compare.

Despite its innocuous nature, however, in all the years they’d known one another, Garak had never offered this gesture to him. It was odd, especially considering the man never hesitated to touch anyone, really.

 _This is_ Cardassian, _though_. For Garak, he imagined, this would feel _real—_ something rare and uncomfortably true for a man who dealt in affectation and lies.

His palm was soft, only a hint of supple scale against skin.

A day ago, this innocent sort of contact might not have felt out of place. Both he and Garak were naturally tactile, and hands often went on shoulders or backs or arms. But there was something about this light touch, now, in the middle of the promenade and the pretense. Something about the way Garak’s eyes met his, soft as the brushing pads of their fingers. In the way he could feel, at their grazing wrists, the rumble of the other man’s heart…

Yes, it was a different sort of feeling. Not romance, maybe…but intimacy.

And Ambassador Troi was right. It counted. It wasn’t a lie.

Their palms pulled apart.

He wondered what the ambassador saw on his face as Garak walked away. If she recognized that same tight expression just as easily.

He took a steadying breath, suddenly grateful for the high alcohol content of the bottle under his arm.

***************************

 

The message had been waiting when he returned to his quarters, and he’d been staring at it for almost an hour now, alternating its bright white letters with the icy depths of Romulan ale.

_Dr. Julian Subatoi Bashir_

_Lieutenant, Junior Grade & Chief Medical Officer_

The Coalition of Alpha Quadrant Diplomats

as hosted by the Free Government of Bajor and The Honorable First Minister Shakaar Edon

would be honored by your presence at

 

**The Hagaan Winter Gala**

to celebrate and strengthen the bonds of friendship and cooperation of all Alpha Quadrant allies

Stardate 51236.8, Saturday, the Night of Haagan, 19:00

Please indicate your attendance preference and submit at your earliest convenience:

                                                       []   Yes, I will attend the event without a guest

                                                       []   Yes, I will attend the event and will be accompanied by a guest

                                                       []   Apologies, I am unable to attend

_Dress is galactic formal; dinner will be served at 21:30_

_all guests subject to weapons screening upon arrival_

 

Somehow, each time he read the three “attendance preferences,” the simple sentences groaned under greater and greater loads of meaning.

The third option was out, of course. When Julian had asked Captain Sisko about this “gala” Ambassador Troi mentioned, Sisko made it clear all senior staff would be in attendance. Chief O’Brien spent some time grumbling about this being the reason he hadn’t wanted to be an officer and about not knowing where or in what state he would find his dress uniform. Kira spent some time reassuring he and Dax that, despite the Bajoran tendency toward moderation, there would be a bar and an expectation that the bar would be visited generously. Haagan was the last day of winter on Bajor, a day, she said, of celebration and renewal and, apparently, some sort of liquor called _mel-vaamel_. Red-honey, Jabara had translated for him later, along with a warning that it was _by no means honey of any sort_ and that he should limit himself to three at most, no matter how many times people shouted for drained glasses.

All in all, it wouldn’t be the worst thing, as required work functions went.

So the only real question was: would he be attending with or without a… _guest_?

Everyone had ticked the plus one box, it seemed. Miles was bringing Keiko. Kira would be there with Shakaar. Sisko was bringing his new freighter captain. Jadzia was bringing that visiting lecturer from Dahkur—a thought he told himself didn’t make him at all bitter, though he’d been pursuing the woman for two weeks.

Julian would be the only plus zero. He leaned back in his seat, cupping the drink between palms.

That had never really bothered him in the past. No doubt there would be any number of lovely Alpha Quadrant ladies in attendance eager to taste a little red-honey and find a quiet corner to chat. He never had much trouble at these sorts of events, honestly. People loved hearing medical stories or stories about all happenings aboard the station, and for a blessed few hours, the conference’s dignitaries would be the Bajoran government’s problem. He would be free to welcome in the spring, as it were.

But there were a few of problems with that, as he saw it.

First, Ambassador Troi thought he was involved with Garak, and, even if Garak wasn’t there, Julian could hardly go around flirting without risk of a scandal.

Second…well, if he was entirely honest, that sort of thing just hadn’t been as fun lately. Perhaps it was turning thirty, but the tedious bits of small conquests seemed to weigh heavier than the possibility of success some days. For every kiss in a dark corner there was an hour of listening to how much she loved some new flavor of Sadarian Ice or how she had just never really found poetry all that interesting. He remembered one of the teaching assistants at the Academy mentioning this off-handedly at a party. _Eventually you’ll have seen enough pleasurable arrangements of bodies_ , _and you’ll start getting more interested in the pleasurable arrangements of minds._

Julian had scoffed at the time—there were an _awful_ _lot_ of lovely bodies out there. And it wasn’t as if he were completely shallow: he liked more than a pretty face. But more and more, that deeper bit—the introduction, the back-and-forth, the slow reveal of self—had taken on greater appeal. When it went well, that is. He’d begun to value _real_ conversation and engagement and challenge.

_You know who gives you that these days, don’t you?_

He took a sip of ale. Yes, Ambassador Troi had been right about that.

_The two of us know each other. Understand each other, and that’s the essence of—_

Which brought him to the third.

He really sort of absolutely… _maybe_ wanted to bring Garak after all.

He and Garak _did_ have the best conversations. Garak was never boring, and he could count on Garak never to bring up Sadarian Ices. What was more…Garak kept pace. With Garak, Julian could _almost_ be himself. _All_ of himself. The himself he didn’t dare to be with, say, Chief O’Brien. Or even Jadzia. Or really _anyone_.

He liked Garak. He did. They knew each other, and maybe, even, he was forcing himself to admit, they had a special sort of…intimacy.

But it wasn’t _that_ sort of intimacy. It wasn’t the sort one generally looked for in a date.

His stomach objected—not to the ale but to the thought.

Ever since he’d told himself he didn’t think of Garak in that context, he’d found himself thinking of nothing but. In particular, the context of the day before and Garak’s arm wrapped around him with light fingers on his hip. It didn’t take much to extend the context. A firmer grasp. A leg wrapped around. An expression full of the same fire as when Julian had suggested that _The Never-ending Sacrifice_ was a stodgier, less nuanced version of _To Give Unto the Prophets_ by Dara Shinaal.

And suddenly he found himself drowning in…context. Garak’s fist tangled in his hair before a toe-curling kiss. The sturdy press of that body pinning him to the wall. The soft trace of microscaled fingertips down his neck. His back. His arse. Sharp contact of eyes as Garak drove into him, filling him full.

And talk about different arrangements of body... Would Garak’s mouth be warm or cool? Ridges arched around Garak’s hips, he knew, but to whence then? And the whole…internal genitals issue. Would it feel…like a woman? How would it taste? If he ran his tongue along that opening, would Garak…moan? He had trouble imagining unflappable Garak moaning.

Well, actually, he _didn’t_ have trouble imagining it. He had trouble _not_ imagining it at the moment.

He shifted, his body responding to each imagining in precisely the way he’d told himself it didn’t.

Okay, so maybe he _could_ like Garak in that way. In which case the conclusion was simple: he should take Garak to the gala.

Actually, if he considered it, this was the perfect opportunity. He could try it out with a built-in escape hatch. He could pretend, for the night, as if it were real. Perhaps that might even impress Garak, him stepping thoroughly into the role. He would get a chance to see how his friends reacted. How Captain Sisko took it. And if any of what he imagined between he and Garak could really exist outside his fevered and slightly tipsy brain.

If it all fizzled, they could have a good laugh about it and go back to lunch and literature.

_And if it doesn’t fizzle?_

Well… he would board that shuttle when it docked, he supposed.

Taking one more sip, he clicked the second attendance option and submitted the reply with certainty.

He’d go by Garak’s shop and tell him tomorrow morning first thing. He’d have to come up with something convincing, obviously. Maybe practice it in front of the mirror a few times. _Ambassador Troi seems suspicious, Garak. Think we better see it through, just in case. Sorry about the inconvenience and all that. But maybe you wouldn’t mind sitting a bit close for a night?_  

He could already hear Garak’s snort of disapproval when he broke the news that dress uniforms would be required. To be honest, Julian was a little disappointed himself. He would have enjoyed seeing what Garak came up with. And they’d have to go into that little dressing room. Garak might have to take his in-seam. Somehow he would end up leaning against the mirror, while those gray lips worked their way…

Oh this was ridiculous. He deactivated the console with a stab of his finger before heading to bed.

In the end, he couldn’t sleep until he’d allowed those imagined gray lips to do far more than argue about Legate Haras’st.

His dreams offered only more of the same.

He slept well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was sheer hubris on my part to assume life is predictable enough for a regular update schedule, even with the darn thing already written. :) Forgive the delay--my household has only just recovered from some minor sort of plague. 
> 
> Thank you all for your patience and kind words and kudos and (hopefully) continued interest! As always, please do let me know what you think!
> 
> -AC


	4. Mountains and Men

**_4: Mountains and Men_ **

Julian looked good. Most of the time, he didn’t have to try. It was one of the consequences of his parents’ made-to-order version of him, and, as such, yet another quality he couldn’t take much credit for. The Bashirs hadn’t altered any specific features, of course: his face was the same face little Jules might have had. The inside, however, had been _optimized_. Metabolism accelerated. Hormonal balance perfectly tuned. Everything ran with an efficiency that buffed his body to the high shine of health and vigor. Entering his thirties, his skin was still firm and his hairline hadn’t wavered. Occasionally the hair itself got a bit frizzy, granted, but it was nothing a little oil didn’t help.

And there was no frizz in sight tonight, he’d made sure of that. He’d shaved and moisturized and even gone to the trouble of a manicure. Dates paid attention to his hands—something about the hands of a surgeon. The aesthetics might be lost on a Cardassian, but it didn’t hurt to try. Hands were something of a _thing_ for them, after all.

He’d paused, mid-shave, when he recognized the rituals. This was his routine: not his normal first date routine, but the special one he kept on hand for the most anticipated evenings. He’d used the same ablutions before his date with that lovely ensign just last month. The results had been a resounding success.

And would tonight end in…success? _Is that what you want?_

That, he finally decided, was the point of the exercise. Success would be an answer— _any_ answer—to the confused mix of lust and nerves and uncertainty that had churned in his gut since Garak agreed to play a miraculous recovery. _I’ll steam my mijast,_ he’d said, with that infuriating flat of a smile, making it impossible to tell if Julian’s change of heart had any effect at all.

The answer, of course, might be that _Garak_ wasn’t interested.

Hell, the answer might be that he’d been wrong _himself_ —that the spark between was the intimacy of friendship and nothing more.

_And it might be…success._

He turned his head slightly at the mirror, taking in what he knew was his best angle.

Yes, he looked good. Engineered it might be, but tonight he could admit some reluctant gratitude. It bolstered him. Helped him feel ready. Gala-ready. _Garak_ -ready.

The moment the door opened, however, he realized how far from ready he’d been.

Garak looked…incredible.

Julian was the first to admit he didn’t know much about fashion. He knew what he liked, but he’d been told on many occasions that what he liked didn’t qualify. So he couldn’t have said what material Garak’s tunic was made from or what cut it was or even the precise shade. All he could say was that the tailor had shed ten pounds around the middle, body less endearing soft center and more sleek strength. The dark fabric was slashed through with a lighter blue, and Julian wasn’t sure if it was this splash of color or some Cardassian beautification routine, but the tone of Garak’s scales had changed. Gray had taken on a silver tinge, radiant in the light. Several scales midway down Garak’s neckridges had a cosmetic applied, matte black that set against the shine around it temptingly. On a normal day, it might have felt flashy, but tonight, combined with the lush fabric and bright blue eyes, the hint of darkness was downright stunning. He wanted nothing more than to wrap his lips around those scales and lick it off.

_Slow down, Bashir. You’re supposed to be test driving the shuttle not buying it and rolling around naked on the backseat…_

As if this wasn’t enough, Garak was looking at _him._ Eyes worked down, appraising and sharp, thorough as hands. Behind the pasted-on civility, Julian was sure he saw something else. Something incisive…

“Doctor, I fear you’ve miscalculated.”

His stomach dropped. What? It was his dress uniform: how could he possibly have bollocksed _that_ up? “I—I’m sorry?”

“If the goal is to make this lie plausible, you ought not to look quite _so_ ravishing. I doubt anyone will believe I could be so lucky.”

Oh.

Oh, well.

His cheeks warmed. “I—I could say the same, Garak. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking so…polished.”

 _Sexy_. He’d wanted to say sexy. _Coward._

“How kind of you to say, Doctor.” Garak offered his arm.

Julian looked at that arm—looked at it for what he hoped wasn’t too long, overly aware of each small scale that ringed wrist and trailed up to disappear under sleeve.  He’d been thinking about this—about touching Garak—for days. And nights. Three long nights, now.

He swallowed. “Kindness isn’t a consideration, Mister Garak. I’m merely stating the facts.”

Garak chuckled, and Julian felt that flutter—that insistent, little flutter.

He _loved_ that flutter.

Elbow brushed waist as they locked arms, and Julian felt every millimeter of the slide. Garak was surprisingly warm. And solid.

And so much better than any imagining.

 

******************

The delightful little flutter turned to nausea the moment they stepped aboard the transport to Bajor.

In the heat of the moment, Julian had forgotten that this wasn’t some intimate dinner in his quarters or private session in the holosuite. This wasn’t a table for two: they were going to do this in front of _everyone_.

A fact which jostled its way back to the forefront of his mind when his eyes locked with those of Miles O’Brien.

Narrowed eyes that took in Julian’s arm wrapped in Garak’s. The way Garak was leaning close enough to scent. The look on Julian’s face, which he had to imagine was decidedly more than friendly. The marked scales on Garak’s neck…

“What the—“

Julian turned away, but he knew the sound of Keiko elbowing the Chief into silence well enough.

Garak made as if to loosen their arms, but Julian locked him close. Damned if he was going to back down now. People would take it as they would, which had been the other purpose of the evening—to see how those around him would handle the sight of the station’s CMO and resident spy strolling arm and arm.

Even so, he didn’t concentrate too closely on any one reaction. He noticed Captain Sisko’s eyes widen, and he caught a hint of Keiko’s apologetic smile. Kira hadn’t bothered to look at him, preferring to level her icy stare directly at Garak.

Jadzia’s reaction, though, was difficult to ignore. Her glowing smile shouted _,_ and, in case that left any doubt, she raised her eyebrows and shot him a look that was about as subtle as a Klingon in a wrestling match.

Face heated, he passed by quickly. The last thing he needed was Jadzia’s well-intentioned brand of meddling. He was nervous enough as it was.

 “Julian!”

Of course, she was already following.

“I’m afraid there’s no turning back now, Doctor,” Garak whispered, amused. “And likely no escape.”

No turning back indeed. Once Jadzia knew, _everyone_ did. 

He surrendered, turning to meet her smugness with a _look_ of his own.

“Julian. I didn’t know you were bringing a guest!” She patted his arm and looked him up and down just as Garak had.

“Well? Do I meet with your approval?”

 “Oh, you look downright dashing. Don’t you agree, Garak?”

“Most assuredly.”  Garak’s arm snaked behind Julian's back, pulling them closer together. “And you’re looking quite lovely yourself, Commander. Between you and Julian, I feel as if I’m looking at some gleaming Starfleet advertisement. Enough to make even this Cardassian intone ‘ _Ex Astris, Scientia’_.”

Jadzia laughed, but Julian didn’t register much beyond the hand at his waist and his name on Garak’s lips.

 _Julian._ Garak had called him _Julian._ He’d never heard it in that voice, the _j_ too aspirated, the u rounded with neat formality. God, it was nice. It felt…right. Already, it echoed through his brain in a hundred hues: sighed, whimpered, grated out in the throes of passion…

 “—representing Cardassia well yourself.” Jadzia was gesturing to Garak’s tunic. “Though, I should warn you, you’re not the only one doing so this evening.” She nodded towards the back of the shuttle.

Julian was relieved to see the Cardassian in question was entirely unfamiliar. He’d been afraid, for a cold moment, that it would be Dukat. “Do you recognize him?”

“Not at all.” Garak didn’t bother hiding the contempt in his voice. “I suppose there’s been …turnover with this new civilian government.”

Jadzia’s sigh was theatrical. “ ‘Time and change shape men as the mountains.’ ”

Julian recognized the quote—from Iloja’s _Voice from the Desert_.

Garak _hated_ Iloja. His attention sharpened, blue and intrigued.

“I’d like to find our seats before we leave dock,” Julian cut in, directing Garak away and glaring at Jadzia over his shoulder. Arguing about literature and philosophy was _his_ territory, and he wasn’t about to let Jadzia pull another one.  

She gave a little shrug and smile and returned to her date.

Garak stepped away, taking up pace beside him as if walking along the promenade.  Julian missed the arm around him.

“Shall we get something to drink before we sit, Doctor?”

“‘Doctor’? What happened to ‘Julian’?” He tried not to sound too disappointed.

“Forgive me if I overstepped any boundaries. I thought it more appropriate to the deception. But if —“

“Not at all. You’re probably right.” _And I like it. I really do._

As soon as Garak had said his name, a dangerous thought tickled him—dangerous but _good._ He’d been hoarding this move, saving it to cash in at just the right moment.

That moment had arrived. “Should I call you Elim, then?”

Oh, that got him! A spark of surprise managed to catch before realization smothered it. “Tain told you.”

“He did, _Elim_.” Oh, that voice. That was his date voice. That was his playful, look-at-me-aren’t-I-charming-and-also-a-little-naughty voice. He really was doing this, wasn’t he?

Garak’s face drew closed, clearly thoughtful. First names were less commonly used on Cardassia, and a close relationship between two parties was often required before first names were even exchanged. As far as Julian knew, Garak had never shared his first name with anyone on the station. Had denied even having one on many occasions. Allowing Julian to use his name would not only declare their relationship more intimate, but it would be announcing one of Garak’s secrets to the entire senior staff.

“It’s alright, Garak. I was only joking. I know you value your privacy.”

An uncomfortable nod as they took their seats. “That’s true, but…what’s the expression? Turnabout is fair game.”

“Fair _play_. And since when have _you_ cared about fairness?”

“Perhaps I’ve been too long among you Federation types.”

“Mmm, true. You should go mingle with your countryman back there. No doubt you could have a nice long conversation about sacrifice and duty and might as moral good.”

The smile stayed on Garak’s face, but it tightened. “My dear, he wouldn’t want to speak to me. I’m an exile.”

And… there it was. Foot directly in mouth, another common features of the Julian Bashir date experience. Honestly, he would think genetically enhanced neuronal pathways might have equaled up to a more efficient filter. _Perhaps Dad had to pay extra for that._

He did his best to look apologetic. “I’m sorry, Garak. I…I wasn’t thinking.”

“If his personality is as dull as his outfit, he’s doing me a favor.” Garak appeared to hesitate a moment before squeezing and releasing Julian’s hand in gentle reassurance. “And you can call me ‘Elim,’ if you like. For tonight.” That smile. That wonderful smile. “We wouldn’t want to give ourselves away.”

Julian felt himself staring at the place, just across his knuckles, where Garak had touched him. Where _Elim_ had touched him. Was he being genuinely flirtatious? Or was this him stepping into the lie again? For a moment, Julian could have sworn that cool gaze had softened…

“Thank you, Elim.” Testing, he offered his palm to touch.

A beat.

Another.

Sounds of the shuttle whirring out of dock.

Garak turned his eyes away and asked absently about the transit time, but he set his hand gently, palm-to-palm, just the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On time! Hooray!
> 
> Thank you as always to everyone who is following along! I hope it continues to amuse and entertain. A special thanks to everyone who has taken the time to comment. You guys are so kind I hardly know what to say except I'll keep trying to get the chapters posted on time XD 
> 
> And of course please feel free to come say hi and wallow in my excessive Star Trek reblogging on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/alphacygni-8) if that's your sort of thing :)


	5. The Quaint Charm of Perfect Honesty

**_5: The Quaint Charm of Perfect Honesty_ **

 

After four years, Julian imagined he understood Elim Garak fairly well. Oh, the secrets of Garak’s past remained a mystery, sure, and Julian knew nothing more than a few cobbled together half-truths about Garak’s life on Cardassia. But Julian _did_ feel he knew the man here and now. He’d marked the rhythm of Garak’s speech and knew which barbs were affectionate and which meant trouble. He could divine more than a little from the twitch of a finger or an eyeridge, even if Garak thought himself inscrutable. He’d even spied, through cracks in that plain and simple veneer, concealed wounds beneath. It was all a disguise Julian understood more intimately than Garak would ever suspect.

But tonight, the crystal glasses and sumptuous fashion and cultured, social gleam of the event had brought out a side of Elim Garak altogether new.

It was, Julian had to admit, a thing to behold.

Garak exchanged blunt words with the representatives from Tellar, arguing vehemently about the trade embargo they’d long had on goods from Cardassia. Several times, Julian winced at the bald insults Garak offered, but Garak clearly knew what he was about, each jab only endearing him further. By the end of the conversation, while no one had changed their views on the import of goods from Cardassia, the Tellarites promised to come by and browse the goods of one Cardassian at their first opportunity.

The next moment, Garak engaged Admiral Rolal, the head of the Romulan delegation. Hot and aggressive became cool and withering, and, though it took Julian a moment to suss out what the lilt of the UT meant, he finally realized Garak was doing it _in Romulan._ Something Garak said—it made no sense to Julian, so he assumed it was some sort of idiom or allusion—made her chuckle. Though her nose remained up-turned and her expression grave, the Admiral’s eyes followed Garak closely in a way Julian recognized all too well.

When he wrapped his arm around Garak, he told himself it wasn’t at all out of possessiveness.

Even the Ferengi—the damned Ferengi—were charmed. They discussed business mostly, and Julian’s attention wandered as words like “capital outlay” and “amortization of assets” were bandied about. But the Ferengi did the same as everyone else who’d spoken to Elim Garak that evening. They leaned in. Initial wariness gave way to reluctant interest gave way to total engagement. It was amazing. It was as if Garak could look at someone, size them up completely, and show them precisely what they wanted to see.

Garak’s luck ran out, however, when it came to the Bajorans. To be fair, Garak didn’t really try. When First Minister Shakaar and Major Kira approached and bid them welcome, Garak restrained himself to monosyllables and polite smiles. Possibly because of the disapproval in Kira’s face. And tone. And body language.

And, occasionally, actual language.

Shakaar, on the other hand, was more gracious than Julian might have expected, offering them two tall glasses of _mel-vaamel_ and the traditional toast of _ya-ma-shan._

The drink was very good: sweet and bubbly, and, almost immediately, Julian could feel it scintillating up his spine, brightening the room. Garak, apparently, enjoyed it too, making a satisfied hum that struck Julian like a bell. In the last several days, his imagination had conjured that sound many times, though gray lips had often been wrapped around something other than long-stemmed crystal.

“Mmm, how _enchanting_ ,” Garak allowed after a second sip. “I’m surprised I’ve never come across it. I thought I’d sampled most Bajoran fare by now.”

“It was banned during the Occupation,” Kira said flatly. “A fixture of our ‘backwards religious traditions’.”

Julian and Shakaar traded uncomfortable looks. Though Julian tensed and prayed for the awkward silence to somehow resolve itself more quickly, it was almost a relief to know that even suave Elim Garak occasionally made a misstep.

“Ahh,” Garak said with an easy smile. “Well, I’m always gratified to know some of those ‘backwards traditions’ survived.” He raised his glass. “ _Ya-ma-shan_ , Major.”

They watched one another, sharp, over their drinks.

Shakaar cast about, clearly relieved to find the Cardassian minister passing. “Doctor, have you met Pol Lassat? He’s the recently appointed Head of Off-world Affairs on Cardassia Prime and a special guest here tonight.”

The Cardassian turned their way with clear reluctance. He looked like a fastidious man inspecting a dusty table. “Of course, Minister. Cardassia values its newfound peace with Bajor and hopes to strengthen its bonds with _all_ our allies.”

“Pol Lassat, allow me to introduce Doctor Julian Bashir, the Chief Medical Officer on Deep Space Nine. Or…maybe you’ve been introduced? I understand Doctor Bashir has been liaising with many dignitaries on Starfleet’s behalf…”

“I didn’t stop at Ter—at the station,” the Cardassian said, turning a wan smile on Julian. He spoke slowly and with a nasal drone. “A pleasure to meet you, Doctor. Cardassia appreciates yours and Starfleet’s commitment to the success of this event.”

Julian returned something similarly bland before smiling into a long pull of _mel-vaamel_. _Garak was right about this one._ A personality to match the drab brown of his tunic.

“And this is Mister Garak, who if I’m—” Shakaar stopped.

The Cardassian minister had walked away.

This time, Garak’s recovery was not so easy. “Julian, dear… perhaps we might find a seat? I’m feeling rather peckish, and with so many tempting dishes going about…”

Julian grabbed several morsels from passing trays and found them two chairs near the back of the hall. Garak sat in uncharacteristic silence and, despite what he’d said, didn’t eat. Instead he leaned back in his chair, rolling his glass between fingers and looking out at the room.

 But he wasn’t looking out at the room: he was looking very much inward.

“Moba fruit?” Julian offered, hearing the awkwardness in his voice all too well. “It’s in some kind of vinegary sauce…not too bad.”

“No, thank you, Doctor,” Garak said, absently.

 _And I’m back to ‘Doctor.’_ The encounter had been enough to make even the vaunted Order agent break cover.

It clearly got to him. Well, of course it did. Being treated as if you didn’t exist. As if you were beneath the dignity of such a man to even acknowledge. It was only natural such treatment would sting, but it surprised Julian nevertheless. He’d grown accustomed to thinking of Garak as thoroughly bulletproof.

It hurt to see him wounded.

 _Don’t just sit observing, you twit. Say something._ He couldn’t help but feel Garak would know what to say if the tables were turned. Garak was never at a loss. No doubt he would make some remark that cut to the quick of the man and then distract Julian with some interesting point of contention or some petty--

Julian smiled. Argument. Some petty argument. It was, after all, what they did best.

“Care to share what you find so amusing, Doctor?”

Smile deepening, he gave an elaborate sigh. “Oh, I was just thinking what an absolute _huss’vet otassk_ that Cardassian ambassador is.”

It had precisely the effect he’d intended.

“Doctor!”

He gave Garak a look of affected innocence.

“Where on Prime did you learn such language?!” Garak huffed, shaking his head.

“I read it.”

“ _Read_ it? I’ve never given you a book with such obscenities.”

“You think I only read books _you_ recommend? Besides…he _is_ a _huss’vet otassk_. _Esserni’yanak otassk,_ even.”

Garak’s eyes widened further.

“You disagree?”

A pause and a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t _disagree_. But I’ll certainly have to have a word with Commander Dax about her literary choices. It’s one thing for a woman of three-hundred years, but to expose an impressionable young mind to such filth…”

Julian laughed, maybe a little too loudly. “This impressionable young mind isn’t opposed to a bit of filth now and again.” The _mel-vaamel_ was doing its work, and he was enjoying it. Almost as much as he was enjoying the chiding, faux-prim look on Garak’s face. “Don’t be such a _droj’olit._ ”

It was Garak’s turn to laugh. The unguarded look of happiness in the other man’s eyes resurrected that little flutter, dizzying, in his chest. Garak was stunning like this. Happy and vulnerable and maybe just a bit tipsy. Julian fluttered and wanted _more_.

_And perhaps more of this red-honey, too…_

 “A _droj’olit_ …” Garak tutted indulgently—almost fondly—but the sparkle in his eyes was keen, blue light on a blade. “  can hardly be otherwise if you insist on being such an unrepentant _hor’sissk_.” The word was little more than a hiss.

Julian didn’t know the exact translation, but the weave of it and the sudden drop of Garak’s voice stirred a place that answered to forces beyond semantics. “ _Hor’sissk_ …I…I’m not familiar with that one.”

Garak stood, looking out, clearly ready to take on the crowd once more. “Perhaps you can ask Commander Dax,” he said, all arch, before catching the attention of a nearby Andorian delegate and stepping away.

 _Unrepentant hor’sissk_. He had a very good feeling about that…

He grabbed his second drink from a passing tray.

Before the night was over, he was going to need to find Dax.

 

************************************

Garak had been chatting with the Bolian ambassador for the last ten agonizing minutes. The discussion had begun with the ambassador thanking Garak for his sartorial advice and had meandered into Garak enumerating the utility of Bolian knitting techniques in traditional Cardassian brocades. Julian occupied himself attempting to estimate the Bolian woman’s age based on the sag of the midline ridge. Perhaps wearing twenty distinct shade of blue was the Bolian cultural equivalent of carrying hard candies and smelling vaguely of ointment.

The interminable conversation, however, went suddenly quiet, both the ambassador and Garak staring straight at him.

“I—I’m sorry. I must have drifted off there for a moment. What was the question?”

The Bolian’s smile indulged. “I was remarking on what a lovely couple you two make. How did you meet?”

Garak was waiting, placid, apparently content to let Julian take the conversation from there _._ “Oh, you know. We both work on the station. Meeting at work… oldest story in the book, isn’t it?”

The ambassador looked disappointed.

“Oh, no need to spare me the embarrassment, Julian, dear,” Garak said, leaning closer to the woman as if in confidence. “I threw myself at him rather scandalously, truth be told.”

And there it was: the ambassador leaned in, too.

“I was, of course, painfully enamored from the moment we met, but it took me _years_ to make my feelings known. I mean…look at him.”

Julian cheeks heated. He gave Garak a look that promised more Kardasi curses in his near future.

“But eventually, I couldn’t deny my feelings, so I recommended he read a particular piece of literature. We often read novels or poems or plays to discuss together, but this one was different. This particular work ends with one of the finest examples of romantic verse in the Kardasi canon.”

The Bolian’s laugh was almost a gargle. “Cardassian _love_ poetry?”

“Indeed, madam. The love poetry of the mid-Akleenite period is the best in the quadrant, and I challenge anyone to disagree. ‘ _The gentle seam where palm meets palm/knits fast the lines of mine and yours/The heated press of our two breasts/new life into our Union breathes.’”_

The Bolian woman’s eyes shone. Garak _had_ her. “Well, it was effective at least …?”

“It certainly was. We met for lunch to discuss the work, and I read those lines aloud. Oh, I’d practiced for _weeks_ and put everything I could into that recitation. And, just to be sure I was understood, I brushed my foot against his several times under the table. A human practice, if you’re not familiar. ‘Footsie,’ I think they call it, and it usually—”

Julian wasn’t sure which felt more surreal: the insanely intricate story of their imagined romance or that Garak somehow knew what playing footsie was.

“Luckily for me, my dear Julian afforded me the opportunity to prove my affections.” With a flourish he might have deemed ridiculous if not for the sudden feel of Garak’s scales on his hand, Garak raised his hand for a kiss. It fell, soft, on the middle knuckle. Blue eyes brushed against his, adoring on top, but, just for Julian, the joke sparkled beneath.

It wasn’t a flutter this time—it was a jolt.

The Bolian ambassador cooed, wishing them love and joy and what the translator delivered as ‘deep oceans of sensual bliss’.

Julian didn’t know the best response to wishes of sensual bliss, so he smiled. It seemed to work.

When they’d finally settled back at the small table by themselves, Garak turned his attention to the passing hors d’oeuvres, clearly in better spirits.

And Julian turned his attention to Garak.

Had Garak invented that scenario in preparation for the evening? Or had he assembled it on the spot for the Bolian ambassador’s sake?

What poem was that, he wondered. Mid-Akleenite, Garak said. That sounded familiar, but Julian couldn’t remember them ever having read any Mid-Akleenite pieces. They’d read a few things Garak insisted had romantic overtones, though Julian would never have known. He did remember a prose hymn they’d read that was a sort of pseudo-erotic treatment of continuing the ancestral line…hell, that probably _was_ sodding Cardassian love poetry.

And how the hell did Garak know about playing footsie?

He looked over at the other man arranging a bite of hasperat on his fork. “That was some story, Garak.”

“Mmm,” he hummed through his bite.

“The ambassador seemed thoroughly entertained…though not as entertained as you, I daresay.”

“Yes, well, in my experience, old women—be they Bolian or Betazoid or Breen—are all charmed by dramatic stories of young love.”

Julian squeezed a _moba_ fruit between his fingers and decided not to challenge Garak’s assertion that a romance between them would qualify as ‘young love.’ “And is that what you did with me?”

Garak’s look was wary. “Doctor?”

“The first time we met…did you do _this_? This…performance I’m seeing tonight?” Words smoothed into one another slightly, and he could feel more than the usual heat in his limbs. _The drink, Julian. Just the drink._ “Did you take one look at me, size me up, and present the version of yourself most likely to charm?”

An almost predatory grin that reminded him of that first moment quite clearly. “Were you _charmed_?”

“Mostly I was _terrified_.”

“Ahh, but fear is exhilarating, isn’t it?” Garak had leaned back in his chair and was appraising Julian over a full glass. “Does that bother you, Doctor?”  

“No…not _bother_ , exactly. I just like to think that when I’m talking to someone, I’m talking to the _real_ them.”

“It’s all the ‘real me’.”

Julian chuckled.  “’Especially the lies’, eh?”

The little nod of Garak’s head said _just so_.

“Well, lies or not, it’s impressive. The Thousand Faces of Elim Garak…” That earned him a laugh. Garak’s laugh was wonderful—he’d never noticed it before. “I’m rubbish at ‘working the room’.”

“True, Doctor. You are always your own inimitable self, which can be disarming in its own way.” Garak tipped his glass as if in tribute. “The quaint charm of perfect honesty.”

“Oh…no one is _perfectly_ honest.”

Julian turned to find Ambassador Troi’s black eyes on his.  “Isn’t that right, Doctor Bashir?”

Did she…did she know something? God, he really shouldn’t be the sort of person with more than one secret…

He couldn’t panic. He was probably imagining…

His grip on his voice was exact. “Oh, well, we all keep a few little secrets, I’m sure.”

“And what is life without a little mystery?” Garak cut in, smooth, offering the ambassador one of those ridiculous bows. Well, that charm could be rather useful, he supposed. “And, if I may, madam, you look positively radiant this evening.”

Julian hoped his nod of agreement wasn’t _too_ enthusiastic. The dress Garak had sold her—he’d gone with the violet after all, it seemed—really _was_ perfect. It wasn’t something Julian fancied, of course—there were rather more ruffles and feathers than he thought appropriate for a single garment. On her, however, it worked, a perfect match to her elaborate purple-and-silver coiffure and the sparkling array of diamonds at her neck.

“Thanks to you, Mister Garak.”

“I have but framed a masterpiece, madam.”

Inwardly, Julian groaned. He was going to need another glass of _mel-vaamel_ if the two of them kept this up.

Ambassador Troi, however, didn’t seem to mind. She smoothed at a nonexistent wrinkle in her gown. “I’m glad to see you’re _both_ here this evening. You’ve made a complete recovery then, I trust?” she asked Garak.

“Oh, yes. Fortunately, I received the expert _attentions_ of a rather talented young doctor.” The look Garak gave him had teeth, and Julian felt them sink in.

A too-long moment eked past filled only with the buzz of other conversation and soft strains of music across the hall. It had the awkwardness of a dropped ball.

 _Come on, Bashir!_ He couldn’t just sit there gobsmacked, imagining a follow up to that look in which Garak grabbed him by the uniform front and pushed him over the table right then and there. No, he had to volley back. _You were the bloody tennis player._ And he was _good_ at flirting, damn it. He had to get in this game. If Garak could construct an entire story of their courtship complete with lines from Akleenite poetry, the _least_ Julian could do was match him innuendo for innuendo.

He cleared his throat, sliding a hand down Garak’s spine lightly. “Well, I _did_ have some incentive to get him into this _mijast,_ as you can see.” He focused the heat and intensity of every confused longing he’d had for the last three days in the look he ran up Garak’s body, foot to face. He let it rest none too subtly on Garak’s admittedly rather nice backside.

For the briefest of seconds, he caught what might have been surprise in Garak’s well-schooled expression.

“Yes, indeed. And I hope you won’t mind sharing for a moment…?” She gestured out toward the dance floor across the hall. “I have it on good authority that they’ll be doing a Betazoid waltz for the next song, and I’ve a sneaking suspicion that you, Mister Garak, would be a skilled partner.”

Julian felt a shock of jealous anger before he realized how ludicrous that was.

“Oh, well, it’s been some time since I waltzed in the Betazoid fashion,” Garak said, somehow making it abundantly clear that this was false modesty. “But I shall endeavor to be worthy of my partner. If…of course, Julian wouldn’t object…?”

 _Yes, I object. You’re_ my _bloody date, and I haven’t even had a go yet. Not that I like to dance, of course, but I should get to—_

“Of course not. Cut a rug.”

Garak paused. “I’m going to assume that’s translator error. I don’t think the Bajoran ministry would take kindly—"

“An expression—never mind. Just, go dance. No worries.”

Julian managed to keep his voice light and his smile on until the two of them were well across the room. But, as the strings and woodwinds took up the waltz, disappointment and uncertainty took up their own familiar tune.

What was he disappointed about? The food had been good, the _mel-vaamel_ was lightening his limbs (if not his mood), and no one thus far had made a scene about the two of them being here together. If they could get through another couple of hours, the charade would be over, and Julian could return home to sort through whether he wanted it to be a charade or not.

His eyes found Garak across the hall. He was turning the ambassador expertly across the dance floor—of course he was—and she had leaned in close, whispering something Garak was listening to with focused attention. Intimate almost.

 _That’s what it is_. That’s what had been lacking in this evening. _Intimacy._

In a way, this was a first date—that is, if you didn’t count the hundred or so lunches he and Garak had shared in the last four years. You weren’t supposed to spend first dates nodding politely while some Vulcan diplomat droned on for twenty minutes about economic policies. You were supposed to sit a little too close and get sort of sweaty and be distracted by lips and realize you hadn’t been listening and smile stupidly and lean in and kiss. And then have a few seconds where you both weren’t sure how to move past that and then laugh and have a proper chat before kissing again…

Across the hall, Ambassador Troi let out a resounding laugh.

_That should bloody well be me laughing._

Of course this was a stupid way to feel. This wasn’t really a first date, not to Garak. Why Julian had gone in thinking Garak would treat it like one…

“I don’t think you should be jealous of Ambassador Troi.”

Julian hadn’t even noticed Jadzia take the seat beside him. She popped a _moba_ fruit into her mouth and gave him a look full of pity.

“I’m not _jealous_.” Okay, that hadn’t sounded as convincing as he might have liked.

“Well, you don’t look like a man enjoying his evening. Things not going how you hoped with Garak?”

He started to put together a lie about the _mel-vaamel_ not sitting well, but, when he met the genuine concern in Jadzia’s eyes, he cracked. He wasn’t sure what it was about her, but she’d always had a way of forcing him to be brutally honest with himself. “Jadzia…I think I’ve been spectacularly stupid.”

That smile—that’s what it was. The woman had a smile that could reach through even the darkest moods, promising relief. “Julian, when it comes to the spectacularly stupid, I’m afraid, in your case, I’ll need something more specific.”

Of course there was _that_ , too. Honestly, you’d think a woman who’d lived more than three hundred years would have a better sense of humor. “ _Specifically_ about Garak. This whole thing—tonight—it’s not really a date. I mean, we’re here together, but…”

Jadzia lifted an eyebrow.

“I…might have fibbed about having a date with Garak to get away from Ambassador Troi. And then, before I knew it, she was inviting us to this. As a couple.”

“I see. So you two aren’t really together?”

He shook his head.

“The hand-holding, the heated looks, the first names? All part of the lie?”

“Yep.”

“Huh.” She waved over another glass of whatever liquor she’d been sipping, frothy and bright orange. Usually, when Julian admitted some uncomfortable truth, she seemed totally unsurprised, as if she’d known all along. That’s what three hundred years’ experience got you, he supposed. But this time, she seemed genuinely caught off-guard. Did everyone really just assume he and Garak had a thing for each other?

“Well, if it’s all a lie, you should consider telling Chief O’Brien. He’s been pretty concerned ever since he saw you two on the shuttle.” She took a sip, glancing in the direction of the dance floor. “And actually…if you’re not together, I suppose you wouldn’t mind if I asked Garak to dance? He’s an impressive dancer.”

He glared at her.

“And you know what they say about a man who can dance…”

He huffed, trying not to be more infuriated by the chuckle this reaction earned him. There was that _I-knew-it_ smile again…

“It’s not a lie to _you_ , is it?”

He let himself have a long, slow breath. _Alright, say it again, Bashir_. One more time, with feeling:

_Especially the lies._

“No…I…suppose it’s not.” Oh, _now_ he was sulking properly. He could feel it in the slight slouch of his back and the press of his lips. He wanted to be anywhere but this place. He wanted to get away from the noise and take off this damned dress uniform with its overly-starched collar and—

“You know, Julian, I’m disappointed.”

Great. Just what he needed. A dressing down from the resident tercentenarian. “Oh, please do tell how I’ve disappointed,” he grumbled into his drink.

“The Julian Bashir I met four years ago would never have sat at a table mooning. He would have pursued. Made his feelings clear.” She tilted her head in amendment. “ _Very_ clear.”

He winced. Yes, he’d been rather an obvious twat with her. “I’d have thought this was an improvement.”

“Yes, well, while that particular brand of tenacity has benefited from the passage of time,” she continued, “I didn’t think age had put the fire out _completely_.”

“Oh, _thanks_.”

“I just mean…I’ve never seen you hesitate like this. If you don’t want it to be a lie, then _don’t let it be a lie_. Make a move. Don’t leave room for doubt.” She stood, pushing back her chair and looking across the room at Garak finishing his dance with a bow.  “Or, if you’re not going to, let me know. I’ve never… _waltzed_ with a Cardassian.”

 He narrowed his eyes at her but couldn’t help the smile. “Go _waltz_ with your own date, and let mine alone, if you please.”

“Since you asked nicely…” She leaned down and gave him a gentle peck on the cheek. “And…can I offer one more word of advice?”

He rolled his eyes, grabbing another glass of _mel-vaamel_ from a passing tray. “Can I stop you?”

 “They’ll be playing the Andorian Fire Tango soon. Ask for a dance _then_.”

 “Fire Tango?”

She nodded emphatically. “Andor’s a chilly place. When there’s a fire, you settle in _close._ ” She clinked her glass against his with a meaningful look. “ _Ya-ma-shan_ , Julian.”

Oh yes, well, every once and awhile, Jadzia did have rather good advice.

“Oh…wait! I almost forgot to ask.”

She turned back with a questioning look over her glass.

“What does _hor’sissk_ mean?”

She had to cover her mouth to keep from spitting her drink. After a splutter or two, she let out a laugh so loud people several tables over turned to look.

He’d expected some reaction, but not quite that. “What?!”

“Let me guess. Garak said it to you.”

“Should I be offended?”

She considered for a moment but then merely raised her glass. “Julian, make a move.”

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

Jadzia really was frightfully gorgeous most of the time, but here, now, with mischief and the gold light of the hall playing in her eyes, her beauty was downright obscene. “Not a chance.”

He watched her walk away, hating and loving her more than he could say.

He sighed and took a long pull of his third glass. He’d need it if he was going to make his move.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive the week off! The last two weeks have been a playlist of adulthood's most tedious yet time-consuming hits, including jury duty, conference presentations, funerals, and general work-related drama. I was desperately in need of some time to concentrate on lizard fake-dating and am happy to say that we're back on schedule. I plan to have the entirety of the fic posted by the new year! (See how confidently I said that!!)
> 
> Thank you to everyone for your patience and your *amazingly* kind comments. I hope this continues to amuse!
> 
> -AC


	6. Rudimentary Experience

**_6: Rudimentary Experience_ **

 

Julian wasn’t a patient man. Over the years he’d learned ways to cope—strategies to help him through these waits with a modicum of grace. Tonight, he’d given himself over to cataloguing the mundane details of the room. Were the sconces gold or gilt? How high was the ceiling? What sorts of tiles were these? How many Bajoran frost-violets had they managed to pack into a single room?

The key, really, was to keep the augment mind _busy_. To fix it on something else— _anything_ else—and avoid scale-based fantasies. And xenobiological conjecture. And the roughly 42.3333 (repeating) percent chance that Garak would simply laugh the moment Julian said something remotely romantic.

Just…focus on the violets.

There were around four hundred and thirty, at his best guess. At least a dozen at each of the small tables, with larger arrangements at about thirty each. The frost-violet, which traditionally bloomed on the first day of spring, was the symbol of Haagan, so its presence was to be expected. Still, there _was_ an awful lot of violet; Garak had been right.

Garak. Back to Garak.

His leg bounced under the table.

The Fire Tango should be coming up soon, and he _was_ going to ask Garak to dance. He didn’t know anything about the tango, but he’d always been good at picking these things up. He could always fall back and let Garak lead, certainly. He was sure Garak would know it. What bloody thing did Garak _not_ know, honestly?

But …no, that wasn’t the tone he wanted this evening. Garak _always_ led—always directed the footwork. This time _he_ would lead. They would dance, and Julian would lean close and ask Garak to join him on the terrace. He’d scouted it already, a lovely spot, with sparkling lights and silver streamers, overlooking the Bajoran capital lit in purple below. There, in the light of Bajor’s moons, he could…make his intentions known. Somehow. He hadn’t worked that bit out yet. Probably best to let it come naturally.

And if Garak gave him that “oh my poor, ridiculous Doctor” look in return, well…at least he’d have a convenient place to fling himself from.

No…no. That wasn’t going to happen. Garak _was_ interested: he’d been flirting for years. Though, to be fair, Garak flirted with everyone, so it was hard to tell if that meant anything. Not to mention the fact that Garak was constantly banging on about how the human tendency to follow every romantic notion was selfish and reckless and ill-advised.

Perhaps, though, if it wasn’t…romantic. At the very least, Garak might be up for something physical.

His insides squirmed at the thought, the bounce of his leg speeding.

Was that enough? Is that what _he_ wanted? A fling to get it out of his system? Or did he want…what? A relationship, with dates, anniversaries, the whole lot? Well, not the _whole_ lot. He didn’t exactly imagine wedding bells. Garak wasn’t the sort you brought home to mum.

 _Who are you kidding, Julian. Mum would_ love _Garak._ Gardening. Dress-making. She’d probably prefer him, honestly.

But that was moot: Julian wasn’t the settling down type.

Was he?

Was Garak?

The only reason he could see to get married was if they wanted children, and he was in no position to consider that. Of course, he did like the _idea_ of kids, but with Garak? Could humans and Cardassians even reproduce?  Obviously it wouldn’t be—

The music across the hall flared into a scorching staccato melody. He’d never heard the Fire Tango, but there was absolutely no mistaking it.

He stopped his leg purposefully. _Slow down, Bashir_. They hadn’t even gotten past the _do you fancy me_ bit: perhaps the obsessive circles of planning could wait at least until date two.

Date two—that was the goal.

He gave his uniform a purposeful tug and made ready to dance.

But the _thunk_ of the glass and the unmistakable tang of whiskey put a stop to that.

“Chief?”

Miles had taken the seat beside him but was most certainly _not_ looking his way. He was nursing what looked to be a double. “Have a drink, Julian.”

“Well, actually, I—”

“Look, Julian…” He started and stopped something several times, each syllable the creaking beginning and end of a thought. “Christ, just…have the drink, okay?”

He picked up the glass but didn’t commit. “Where did you manage to find whiskey on Bajor?”

With a sly smile, Miles pulled aside the flap of his dress uniform to reveal a discreet flask at his hip. “I can’t stand this fruity Bajoran stuff.”

“Chief, I’m impressed. You got that past the scanners?”

“Offered the guard a nip. He didn’t complain.”

“Really?” He sniffed at what he could tell was going to be a robust drink. _I might have._

“It’s a rare cask Macallan! Don’t have to be human to appreciate that sort of thing.”

Julian took a tentative sip and gave Miles what he hoped was a convincing nod. He definitely preferred the fruity Bajoran stuff.

Across the room, the Fire Tango was in full, blazing effect. Luckily, Garak hadn’t found a partner for what was—Jadzia had _not_ been exaggerating—a thoroughly _intimate_ dance. Unluckily, he was chatting with that Romulan admiral again, expression sharp and fascinated in a way Julian recognized instantly. They were _arguing._ Oh, this wasn’t how this was meant to go…

He might still have a chance to get to Garak in time if—

“Look, Julian, I—I don’t want you…I mean, I want you to _know_ that—“

Oh no. Miles had the distinct air of a man with Something to say. This wasn’t going to resolve itself quickly.

“Keiko seems to think I may have given the impression that I…disapprove of you and…” The name seemed stuck. “Of you being here with—“

“With Garak?”

“Right. With Garak.”

Ahh, that’s what this was. For a moment, the discomfort on the Chief’s face was obvious enough that he considered doing as Jadzia suggested and letting the Chief in on the secret.

But…he also _really_ wanted to hear what the Chief had to say. “Keiko would be right.”

“As usual,” he grumbled. It had taken Julian the better part of three years to understand that this grumble was, in fact, affectionate. “Well, I wanted you to know that…I don’t. I mean, not that it matters what I think, but…I don’t. Disapprove.”

Miles sneaking a flask of whiskey into a diplomatic event didn’t surprise him. This did. “Really?”

“No—well…okay, maybe I do a little. But only because he’s _Garak_ and I…I don’t want you to get, you know, taken advantage of.”

“I’m not a blushing maiden, Miles. I can handle myself.”

“Sure—I know that. And he does seem to have a soft spot for you. God knows you two have been winking at each other across that table long enough.”

“What?” So it wasn’t just Jadzia. Even Miles had thought…

“Oh, come off it. All those ‘lunches.’ And books. And arguments.” He drained the last of his glass. “And the way you came scampering into Ops with those big eyes and that ‘the spy talked to me’ speech.”

Julian opened his mouth to argue but stopped himself short. Yes…okay, he _had_ done that. But that was just… reporting in. And, yeah, maybe a little excitement. Curiosity.

“And the whole ‘I suppose Garak has taught me to think of lunch as a sort of arena for philosophical debate.’”

He hated when the Chief did his accent in that high-pitched voice.

“And waking Sisko at four in the morning to ask for a shuttle so you two could go off to Bajor together?”

Now that wasn’t fair. That had been for Rugal. That wasn’t—

“I mean, he broke into your quarters while you were sleeping, and it didn’t even faze you!”

Oh. Yeah. Well, it had been urgent. And he’d gotten swept up in the excitement.

Of the Rugal situation. _That_ excitement. Not—

“And Dax told me about you two during that station-wide lockdown…well, I thought she was exaggerating, until Kira said—“

“Alright, yes, yes…” He held up a hand, attempting to stop the Chief’s growing momentum on the topic. “Well, I’m the last to know, I suppose, but I…I think I’m going to give it a go with him. With Garak.” He tried to get Miles to meet his eyes. “Is that… going to be a problem?”

“’Course not,” the Chief said easily. “I mean, I don’t _like_ him. And I don’t _trust_ him. But if he makes you…happy or…or whatever it is you are together then…then I’m happy for you, too.” He lifted his glass.

That small gesture was almost enough, Julian decided, to make up for having missed out on the Fire Tango. Of all the people whose opinions he’d worried over, Miles’s was at the top of the list. If Miles could be okay with it, he imagined anyone could.

And the whiskey was warming him as much as any Fire Tango, even if wasn’t quite as enjoyable. “Well, I’ll drink to that.”

The clink of their glasses seemed to help the Chief unwind. “Okay, well… I’d better find Keiko. To be honest, I was dead afraid she might insist we try _that_.” He was watching the dance floor with a vaguely horrified look.

Julian chuckled. “Not a tango-er, Chief?”

He set his empty glass down on the table. “Nah, more of a foxtrot man, myself.” His tone was light, joking, but trailed into a pause. A hesitation.

“Is…there something else?”

“…Julian just promise me one thing.”

He braced himself. Here was the _look out for yourself_ speech. Don’t let the Cardassian catch you unawares. Don’t let it get too serious like you always do. Don’t trust him. And don’t—

“Don’t invite him to darts, okay?”

Julian’s laugh was sudden and choked. A passing vedek gave a disapproving scowl. “Don’t worry, Miles. I don’t think Garak’s the darts sort.”

“ _Or_ racquetball.”

Julian had a fleeting vision of Garak in his racquetball uniform, silver painted across gray scales, tight and clinging in places he’d filled in only in his imagination. Well, racquetball might not be _so_ bad, actually…

“Not with us, I promise. Speaking of, we’re still on for this weekend, aren’t we?”

'’s long as you don’t cry off like last weekend.”

Ahh, there was his Miles. He really was okay with it, then. It was all going to be…okay, wasn’t it?

Julian had to remind himself that there was nothing _to be okay_ yet. In fact, if he didn’t get over there rather quickly, he was afraid his date might be another battle lost to the Romulans. Still, it was good to know that, when it came down to it—when the torpedoes entered the tube—Miles was a true friend. 

“There’s Keiko. I better go rescue her from that Bolian ambassador. What a piece of work. When she gets going it seems like there aren’t enough flasks in the whole quadrant…”

Julian was _almost_ certain he meant the ambassador. “Well, thank you, Chief. It—it was good of you to chat.”

An uncomfortable little nod _._ “Sure, well, you…enjoy your evening and the whiskey and, uh, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” A beat before the double meaning hit him. He turned a shade of red that clashed horribly with the violet all around. “Er, you know what I mean.”

 

****************************

He had arrived, quite suddenly, at another predictable milestone of the Julian Bashir date experience: he was in over his head.

He’d finally finished glass three and worked up the courage to interrupt the heated exchange between Garak and the Romulan ambassador. The interruption earned him a look that told him he was certainly flying too close to the Romulan side of the Neutral Zone.

And she wasn’t the only one enjoying herself, either. He’d had enough lunches with Garak to recognize the lively spark in the eyes and the insistent press of the voice. “Ah, Julian! We were just discussing a few recent Romulan re-interpretations of Surak. The Admiral here was describing a rather clever exegesis by—“

“I’m sure it’s _scintillating_ , but I was hoping to get in a dance before we got to the exegesis..es? -Ees? –i?” He was proud that he hadn’t allowed himself to get too flustered by this graceless proposition, instead setting a firm, guiding hand on Garak’s low back.

Garak turned toward him, looking surprised. Under his palm and a padded length of _mijast_ , muscles shifted.

Julian gave his best winning smile.

Without a word, the Romulan ambassador walked away.

 “I didn’t take you for a dancer, Doctor.” Julian wondered if the disappointment he heard was real or imagined.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for one either, and yet Admiral Rolal might be the only dignitary you haven’t escorted around the dance floor this evening.”

“Something told me she wouldn’t enjoy the Fire Tango,” he said with a smirk. “I haven’t…insulted you…?”

“Oh, no, no.” He’d said it a bit too quickly, he knew. “I just thought it might look…odd…if you’d danced with everyone but your date.”

Something in those blue eyes and the slowness of the response told him Garak wasn’t convinced by the flimsy cover. “You might be right. Unfortunately judging by the presence of those Jalandan lutes, I’m going to guess the next dance will be the Bajoran Reel. I don’t know the Reel.” He gave a little sniff as if to say _and I’m not interested in knowing it._

“Come on, Garak! This night is about cross-cultural alliances. What says interspecies cooperation like a Cardassian and a Starfleet officer doing a Bajoran dance?”

Garak scoffed. “‘Cardassia hopes to strengthen its bonds with all our allies’,” he mocked in a rather convincing impression of the Cardassian Ambassador’s nasal voice. “I don’t believe for a second the Bajorans in the room will approve, no matter _what_ the invitations say.”

“Garak, it’s just one dance. We can stand aside and watch for a second. Get our bearings.”

Garak paused obviously calculating. Julian had watched him make the same face when trying to decide whether or not to order dessert. _Come on, Garak…you want the cake, you know you want it…_

“Very well, Doctor. But I reserve the right to leave the dance floor if it looks as though we might cause a diplomatic incident.”

Garak’s doubts weren’t entirely without merit. As they approached the dance floor, Julian was acutely aware of more than one disapproving shake of the head or confused purse of lips. He sometimes had to remind himself just how recently the Bajorans had been occupied. How fresh the wounds still were.

Garak, on the other hand, wore his smile like armor, only growing more effusive as they passed through the crowd.

And so here they stood, floating at the edge of the dance floor and getting their bearings.

It had started off simply enough. They’d watched a couple close by to catch the basics. The two partners inclined heads at one another then stepped closer, opposite foot stepping prettily toward opposite foot. He was a bit disappointed to see that this was no Fire Tango: partners stood with a chaste distance between, barely touching. He could have done this dance with Miles, damn it.

At least he’d thought so.

Then the music began, and their observed partners had laced hands. Quite fully.

And stepped closer still, cheek inches from cheek.

Not the Fire Tango, no. The ebullient and rounded notes of the Reel’s refrain communicated the open cheer of the dance—a joyous whoop rather than a seductive whisper.

But for a _Cardassian_ , it would be...

He wasn’t entirely sure how intimate the lacing of hands and touching of aural ridges was, but he did know that, on Cardassia, they wouldn’t be for public performance.

 “Doctor…I feel it’s only fair to tell you–” 

Well, that was the point, wasn’t it? To make the move?

With what he hoped was a charming expression, he raised his hands and gave Garak a bow. “Garak, we can hardly walk away now without giving offense. I know it may be a bit...er, but if you…well, I’m not bothered if you’re not…?”

Not as smooth as he might have hoped, but…

For a few excruciating seconds, he thought Garak might truly refuse and walk away, leaving him holding his hands up and grinning ridiculously. Was he pushing this too hard? He wanted to project suave and up-for-anything, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he was reading as…overly aggressive? Cardassians did value subtlety. Perhaps he should take a step back and regroup. Find a better angle of--

All thoughts went out of his head the moment Garak stepped into his space, smile anything but subtle.

Or perhaps this angle was working just fine.

He was in over his head, to be sure. He had exactly no idea how to do this Cardassian hand and cheek thing, and there was a strain of expectation to Garak’s touch that told him it was not something to be fumbled. Still, in his experience, half of attraction was confidence—or at least the illusion of confidence. So, as confidently as he could, _this_ would be his move. He would make it count.

Experimentally, sure to note even the smallest reaction, Julian slid his fingers between Garak’s, slow and thorough, maximizing every inch of friction he could manage. He drew out the bump of knuckle over knuckle, and, while the action did nothing for him directly, watching the change in Garak’s expression as his fingers moved deeper caused a thoroughly unexpected leap in heartrate.

Garak’s face didn’t change much—Garak’s face, when concealing, never did. But this reaction was, by the spy’s standards, flagrant. Gray lips parted, pulling in air. Black pupils overtook blue, eyes fighting to stay steady. And what must have been an instinctual dart of tongue from mouth, tasting the air. An almost-flutter of eyelids.  

As Julian’s fingers stretched his apart, Garak exhaled. It had the outline of a moan.

Julian tried not to think it, but not thinking had never been his strength. Garak was reacting as if Julian’s fingers had found some other intimate place…

His hands trembled at the thought.

By the time fingers were fully laced, they were both on the shaky verge of panting. Julian could feel a fine layer of sweat at his hairline. Garak’s neckridges had swollen rather obviously and gone a shade darker.

 _You’re supposed to be_ dancing _, Bashir._

He swallowed and, with some difficulty, forced the leaden weights of his legs forward. As he moved his cheek to Garak’s, bone brushed aural ridge, and Garak’s breath tickled the shell of his ear. He shuddered.

_You were going for smooth, remember, you prat?_

“Forgive me, Doctor. I do hope this isn’t making you…uncomfortable?” Garak’s words had their usual cadence, but the timbre had deepened, loosened.

 “No, no, I’m not…uncomfortable at all.”

“Doctor, you are the most dreadful liar.”

“I’m _not_ lying, Garak, I’m just…I’m trying to…figure out this dance.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. At some point during their too-intense lacing of fingers, the Reel had taken on more joined forms, and couples were meant to enter one of the lines or circles. As wide smiles and swishing skirts passed by in a rush, he was becoming uncomfortably aware that they were the only ones standing still, looking like a couple of shaky, necking teenagers.

Not the sort of diplomatic incident one wanted on one’s record.

“Perhaps it might be prudent to consider—”

He knew what Garak was going to say. He was going to say they should “consider exiting the dance floor until the next song”. Or maybe “altogether.”

But Julian wasn’t going to do that. For better or worse, he was enjoying the hammer of that pulse at his fingertip and the occasional swell of Garak’s neckridges against his shoulder. So close to his ear, Garak’s voice was tactile, each word a touch. He wasn’t about to let the tailor pull away.

And, maybe more than any of the rest, he enjoyed seeing Garak _rattled_ , even if it was just a small fray at those smooth edges.

So he did what he always did when in over his head. He dove a bit deeper and hoped things worked out.

There was a reassuring rhythm to the Reel that helped him begin, slowly, to connect thoughts in a rational manner. The one-two-three-four of it was a steady wall to brace against, and eventually, he felt Garak relax too, cheek no longer straining to maintain a precise distance from Julian’s. Occasionally their cheeks even touched fully, though Garak separated them quickly when this happened, as if they’d fallen into something quite improper.

Julian might have done it on purpose once or twice. Improper was half the fun, wasn’t it?

To be honest, the whole dance was more fun than he’d anticipated. He’d watched Garak lead numerous partners around the floor that night with obvious ease and enjoyment, but this time, Julian lead and Garak seemed every bit as comfortable following, matching each of Julian’s steps with its perfect counterpart. So much of their time together felt this way. The step and retreat, the graceful turn, each advance joined in a way unexpected and yet ideal. Perfect.

He'd thought that word a lot tonight— _perfect_. It seemed like any time Garak—

Their cheeks brushed fully. This time he hadn’t done it.  In fact, he half-suspected Garak _had_.

Perfect.

Oh God, he was…he was a little in love, wasn’t he?

“You’re an excellent dancer, Doctor.”

The touch of that voice at his ear was gentle. Gentle and yet, also, somehow, rough.

“Oh, well, thank you. That means a lot from someone who clearly knows his way around the dance floor.”

“Dance is a serious discipline on Cardassia.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yes. A man who isn’t a proficient dancer is thought to be…well, I don’t know if there’s a delicate way to put it…”

“We have, uh, the same sort of idea on Earth, actually.”

Was that…was that compliment an innuendo? Or merely another lesson in the Cardassian cultural education program he seemed to have signed on for?

_Well, only one way to find out…_

He tuned his voice to its usual flirtatious pitch. “But, this isn’t dancing ‘ _properly’_ , is it?”

Garak’s laugh shook the length of his cheekbone as if down a tuning fork. “True. On Cardassia, this wouldn’t be considering _dancing_ at all.”

“Oh? What would you call it?”

The silence made a clear enough answer.

“Oh, come on! I know lacing hands and touching aural ridges is seen as, you know, intimate. But…how…I mean, do I need to buy you dinner?”

He could feel the confused wrinkle of Garak’s face against his. “I was under the impression dinner was gratis…?”

“It’s a stupid human expression, sorry. I just mean…I’m not doing anything too terribly…” _Naughty. Say it. Say it!_ “Inappropriate…?”

“Inappropriate is a subjective term. I would say that, based on my rudimentary experience with human sexual anatomy and mores—”

_Wait what?_

“—that it would be roughly equivalent to my opening your uniform front and fondling or sucking your nipples.”

Julian’s entire body became suddenly incapable of continued movement until the statement could be thoroughly processed.

“I’ll let you decide if that’s appropriate, Doctor.”

 “W…What?!”

In danger of being overrun by the continued Reel beside them, Garak took firmer hold of his hands and carried him along until he could recover.

“I…I had no idea! Garak, I’m so sorry.” He moved his cheek fully away. He’d wanted to make a move, but, as first moves went, he usually didn’t choose nipple play.

“Yes, cultural exchange is fraught with such perils.”

“Still, I…I like to at least _ask_ before fondling anyone’s anything.”

As the last strain of the music sounded and they stepped apart, Julian was glad to see a smile on Garak’s face—even if it was a damn smug one. “You did ask, my dear. And, as I said, you’re quite a skilled dancer.”

_Oh, that one wasn’t even innuendo…_

As if the lights had gone blinking and the klaxons sounded red alert, Julian knew. _This_ was the moment. Now was the time—before they unlaced hands and the music moved on, and he’d missed it...

“Garak, would you, um, join me on the terrace for a few minutes? I think I…could use some fresh air after that.”

These were always, in Julian’s opinion, the worst and the best seconds—the blinks between question and response, where fate and ego hung, fragile yet expansive, in the balance. He lived in fear and anticipation of these pauses.

He tried to fill this one with the feel of Garak’s fingers still slotted through his.

“Doctor—”

A loud, clear bell cut across Garak’s response cruelly.

Damn. Damn damn damn Bajorans and their dinner rituals…

“Ahh, that’s dinner, I believe,” Garak amended simply.

“We could be a few minutes late, don’t you think?”

“I’d rather not be seen slinking into the dining hall in the middle of the First Minister’s speech. Think what the Cardassian Ambassador might say.”

Garak’s eyes sparkled up at his. They had returned to their usual playfulness, allowing him to hope the moment hadn’t been lost entirely. Something really _had_ passed between. Everything about that look evaluated. Insinuated. Promised another moment if only Julian could be patient.

Patient… _perfect_.

Well, patience might not be his forte, but he would try.

Julian sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Always a safe supposition.”

_Cheeky arse._

“I do hope you’ll allow me to escort you to the dining hall, Doctor?”

Julian couldn’t help but notice that, though they had stepped apart and returned to more typical repartee, not once did Garak let their fingers fall fully apart.

He allowed himself to be escorted, hand in hand, to the dining hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh...I know, I know, but I just can't resist a dancing + hand-holding scene. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy these last couple of chapters! As always, thank you so much for the comments/kudos and your kind words of encouragement.
> 
> The final chapter will be published before year's end. Happy holidays/solstice/vacation to all who are enjoying such! <3
> 
> -AC


	7. Especially the Lies

_**7: Especially the Lies** _

 

The fourth glass might have been a mistake.

Jabara had warned him, but he’d been cocky, counting on his accelerated metabolism to keep pace and on the promised feast to absorb any excess. He’d forgotten, though, about the whiskey, and it wasn’t until halfway through _mel-vaamel_ number four that the wobbly lurch of his stomach reminded him.

And as for the feast, well…

He hadn’t counted on the speeches.

Yes, speeches, in the excruciating plural. The First Minister had started them off with a number of quotations by Bajoran spiritual writers and finished with what, to Julian’s mind, was a rather strained allegory about the Alpha Quadrant as a garden. Julian applauded enthusiastically nevertheless, expecting the much-needed first course to follow. Instead, everyone fell silent again, the head of the Vedek Assembly taking his turn to drone on about Haagan and the symbolism of the frost-violet and renewal.

For a time, Julian tried to distract himself by examining the different types of scales that adorned Garak’s various ridges. There really was tremendous variety. Large, thick scales that almost resembled scutes. Keeled scales that shone in the gold light. Tiny barely-scales that might, he imagined, feel like skin. In fact, he took time to consider how each type might feel. Between fingers. Lips. Would the interstices be rough or sensitive? Tough or soft? Would they respond to licking? Or would biting elicit the greater response? And what sort of response, he wondered...

That line of thought, however, wasn’t helping to steady anything, so he returned, desperately, to counting frost-violets. Even that had to be done subtly. Ambassador Troi had directed them to the head table where she assured them it had been no trouble at all to find them a seat. Julian had forced a wide smile to stopper the groan sounding full blast inside. He’d been scouting a far more out-of-the-way spot where he and Garak could continue their conversation and do a bit more hand-holding under the table.

At the very least, he would have preferred to sit with the other Starfleet officers. Really anywhere would have been better than here with the delegates. He’d had his fill over the last three days, and, to top that off, sitting beside the First Minister of Bajor somehow seemed to encourage the embarrassingly insistent, tortured noises his stomach was making. Shakaar was polite enough to pretend he didn’t notice, but Julian didn’t miss the questioning look from Kira.

Worst of all—far worse—was the _cooling_. The heat of that close and almost moment with Garak had evaporated entirely, replaced by the congealed unease of a bit too much alcohol and _far_ too much rhetoric. He could now say for certain that first dates should _not_ involve speeches.

Garak, by contrast, appeared enthralled, hanging on every blasted word as if watching a game of springball. Each clever turn of phrase earned a nod of approval; each clumsy transition a fractional shake of the head. He even deigned to give the Cardassian ambassador his full attention and offered a civil if opaque expression at the speech’s finish. For all Garak liked to bang on about the beauty of Kardasi oratory, the ambassador’s speech had been blunt and utilitarian beside the more poetic speeches of the Bajoran members, and Julian wished anew that they’d been sitting elsewhere. Garak’s uncensored opinion would no doubt have added to Julian’s growing vocabulary of Kardasi curses.

Ambassador Troi’s speech was a welcome follow-up, with all the flourish Julian might expect from a woman who matched her hair to her outfit and her outfit to the most lurid colors in the spectrum. She alone, Julian noted, managed to elicit genuine laughter and applause throughout her performance. If speeches were in fact a sport, Ambassador Troi was the finest player on the court. Garak’s wide smile and nod to her as she finished said he agreed.

There’d been the Tellarite next, and, not to be outdone, the Andorian had gone on twice as long. Miles had been right about the Bolian’s tendency to ramble, and Julian was starting to get truly desperate. Were frost-violets edible? Would he be able to sneak one or two? He had to imagine it would be like eating a garnish, maybe? And if not, was there anything on hand for use as an emetic? _Another glass of mel-vaamel would do the trick, no doubt…_

His stomach gurgled loudly enough that Admiral Rolal arched an eyebrow at him in disapproval.

Rolal’s speech was thoroughly in keeping with her persona: structured and cerebral. Julian caught Garak reach up to switch off his UT, no doubt to judge the speech in the proper linguistic context. It must have been more impressive in the Romulan because Garak nodded with far greater enthusiasm than Julian felt warranted, applause bordering on gushing, really.

Julian barely had a chance to be jealous, though, as the dinner bell rang out again and, to his immense relief, the scent of food— _real food_ —wafted in.

“Oh, thank God,” he sighed before thinking better. “I couldn’t have made it through another of those.”

Rolal’s glare was even colder than usual as she retook the seat across from him.

“Oh, not yours, of course, Admiral. Yours was…excellent.” His stomach gave another rumble as if to underscore the awkwardness.

Ambassador Troi lifted her glass with a flourish and a vaguely pitying smile. “You’re getting the full experience, tonight, Doctor Bashir. Most of diplomacy is wondering when people will stop talking so you can eat.” Several of the delegates chuckled. “The rest is finding the right outfit.”

“Both of which you do quite well, madam,” Garak said with such smoothness Julian couldn’t resist an eyeroll over his water glass. “I especially enjoyed your references to the Betreken Conflict and Admiral Rolal’s references to the Auriga Accords. There are so many parallels with our current situation—especially as concerns the Klingons. It’s invaluable to reflect on such past struggles and successes.”

Both women preened.

_Concentrate on your food, Julian._ He speared at a piece of _kava_ root and tried to ignore the spirited conversation. Tried force himself back to that moment before the bell, when he’d only had three glasses and he could feel Garak’s aural ridge grazing his cheek…

Soon…God, it needed to be soon. As soon as they were done eating, in fact—courtesy be damned. They’d make their way to the terrace, and he would gain back some the ground lost to diplomacy and oratory and Romulan—

“—Romulan custom to examine historical precedent in speech-giving,” Rolal was apparently saying. “We take our rhetorical traditions seriously. As, I believe, do Cardassians…?”

“Oh, indeed we do. On Cardassia, rhetoric is perhaps the most valued skill an individual can cultivate.” Garak’s eyes flit almost imperceptibly to the Cardassian ambassador several seats away. “Not, of course, that one can always tell.”

And _ouch_ , that hit home. Though the Cardassian was pretending to be engaged by conversation at the other end of the table, his shoulders stiffened. Indeed, half the table tensed. To Julian’s left, the First Minister cleared his throat and called uneasily for a bottle of _saam_.

“Is it true that meals on Cardassia are preceded by a dedicated hour of conversation?” Ambassador Troi’s tone was incongruously light amidst the tension all around, and, to an outsider, such breeziness might read as oblivious. After several days watching her, however, Julian knew better. The woman could read the room with ease, telepathy or no. She, like Garak, simply possessed that remarkable ability to _not care_.

 “Ahh, yes, _retik_ , we call it,” Garak replied. “Although these days the full hour is really only observed at formal functions. Small meals taken with friends and family may spare only twenty minutes or so for _retik_ , unfortunately. A shame when hectic schedules erode the niceties. Good conversation can be hard to come by, wouldn’t you say, Lasset _S’sava_?” The honorific was servile at the edges, but its center was unmistakable scorn.

The Cardassian ambassador pushed food around his plate as if he hadn’t heard.

“Lasset _S’sava_?” Garak repeated.

Though Julian had mostly yielded Garak to the delegates while he tucked in, the sweetly poisoned tone in Garak’s voice made him set down his spoon and give Garak a light kick under the table. This was heading into uncomfortable territory. Reprimand-worthy territory.

But Garak didn’t react, staring in the other Cardassian’s direction as if politely—but insistently—awaiting a response. “Wouldn’t you agree that conversation is a dying art?”

Eventually, to Julian’s surprise, the ambassador gave in. “Indeed.”

“Ahh, and a droll illustration,” Garak said with a smirk.

Now even Ambassador Troi shifted. This was beyond not caring. This was _prodding_.

The other Cardassian’s eyes locked with Garak’s. They glinted. Though Julian couldn’t _hear_ anything, touch or pressure-sense or some long-buried hindbrain instinct alerted him to it just the same: deep in Garak’s chest, a basso hiss of challenge.

“Well, on Bajor we see mealtime as a time for _quiet_.” Kira cut across whatever Garak had been about to say, reminding Julian for all the world of mum when he and dad sniped at the dinner table. “A time for gratitude and _silent_ contemplation.”

He didn’t think he’d ever heard anyone make the word _gratitude_ sound quite so venomous. Most of the venom was clearly reserved for Garak.

Once, as a boy, Julian and a classmate had discovered a little black gully snake out behind the schoolyard. Though Julian had warned him against it, the other boy had insisted on poking the snake with a short length of stick. The snake had jumped and hissed warning, but the boy wasn’t deterred, watching in rapt fascination.

Garak had that same look in his eyes now.

In the end, the snake had wrapped its mouth around that little boy’s wrist. Luckily, it had been a harmless bite.

Julian feared this snake might be of a more dangerous variety.

“Fascinating, Major.” Garak was all exaggerated interest, giving Kira only the most cursory of glances. “Gratitude at mealtime _does_ seem to be rather a universal, doesn’t it? On Betazed, I believe there’s a ritual with a gong…?”

Ambassador Troi was giving Garak a _maybe don’t poke the snake_ look herself. “Yes… _tokallo_. It’s reserved for formal celebrations.”

“And on Earth…what was it you called that prayer ritual, Julian?”

Oh hell. He was going to harp on this again? _I’ve just gotten him to shut up about it._

When Julian didn’t answer with anything more than an unimpressed glare and a full mouth, Garak pressed. “I believe you called it ‘saying grace’? Though, ‘grace’ hardly seems an apt descriptor.”

“It was a _joke_ , Garak. That one’s not intended to be serious.”

“I don’t see how it’s any more of a joke than some of the Shakespeare you’ve forced me to read. ‘Good food, good meat, good God, let’s eat.’”

Ambassador Troi laughed seemingly despite herself.

Garak had that teasing, self-important look that made his ridged nose suddenly seem a tempting target. Had they really been ready to snog just a few moments ago? “Look, why don’t you just cut to the bit where you tell us what imminently superior thing Cardassians do…?”

Something in this question appeared to please Garak immensely. _It was a set up. He wanted you to say that_. Damn.

“Ahh, but _I_ am not the Cardassian representative this evening. Would you care to explain _s’sarad_ , Lasset _S’sava_?”

Though he didn’t look up again, the Cardassian stabbed ferociously at his plate. 

The kick under the table was harder this time. “Garak…” Visions of thrown cutlery and fisticuffs played out in his mind. “It isn’t worth—"

But Garak wasn’t listening: every bit of his attention was on the snake. “I imagine you must be _grateful_ for a meal. I hear nothing but reports of starvation on the streets of Cardassi’or.”

_Shite._ “Garak!”

“Or is the new civilian government content to eat while the people in sta—"

“This is unacceptable!” The Cardassian finally broke, pounding at his place setting in full punctuation. Along the table, glasses of _mel-vaamel_ clinked and rippled.

Garak, however, hardly blinked, all plain and simple. “Oh, well, certainly the broth is a bit bland, but it’s nothing a little _saam_ won’t improve,” Garak said with a smile. Only Garak could turn a polite smile into an obscene gesture.

At the far end of the table the Bolian ambassador’s skin had gone a graying shade from shock, and, across, the Andorian ambassador’s antennae twitched wildly. Even Rolal’s slanted brows pinched slightly in undeniable discomfort.

Ambassador Troi set a gentling hand on the Cardassian’s arm. “Pol Lasset, please, I’m sure Mister Garak would—”

“No!” The clatter of the man’s fork against his plate made Julian jump. It wasn’t until the ambassador stood that Julian noticed how damnably _big_ the other man was. Julian had never seen a Cardassian so large. “First Minister, that is _more_ than enough. I must ask that you have this _gaur’ut_ escorted from the hall. It is—”

“Hey!” Julian wasn’t exactly sure how it happened, but somehow he found himself on his feet, too. Somehow, the utter exasperation he’d felt with Garak just the second before had shifted absolutely.

It was _that word_.

That this man would refer to Garak by _that_ word—perhaps the most vile slur one Cardassian could use against another—well, that had done it.

Julian worked up enough _mel-vaamel_ -fueled courage to meet the Cardassian’s blazing eyes. “Garak is with me, and while he is an _ass_ , that is a completely inappropriate—”

“He _is_ a traitor, and I find his presence a disgrace—”

“And I found your pitiful excuse for a speech a disgrace, but you don’t see me demanding you be removed!”

At this, Garak and Shakaar stood as well, though admittedly with more grace. Julian was aware people at the surrounding tables were beginning to stare, but some of Garak and Ambassador Troi’s not caring seemed to have rubbed off.

The Cardassian ambassador was clearly attempting to control his volume and his temper. “First Minister, I’m sure Doctor Bashir and his _guest_ would be perfectly happy elsewhere, and I—”

“Doctor Bashir certainly would _not_!” he countered.

 “Julian—”

“No, Major. If the Ambassador is unhappy with the arrangements, perhaps _he_ could stand to be relocated.”

The Cardassian scoffed. “I will not be _moved_.”

“Well neither will I!”

This was stupid. Just a few moments ago he would have given anything to be in a different seat. But he wasn’t about to let this _hus’svet otassk—_

Several Bajoran security officers were approaching the table with purpose.

“Julian, dear…” Garak’s hand was firm on this arm. “Per—”

“No, Garak, you’ve as much right to sit here and be insufferable as he does. And—"

Julian heard Ambassador Troi say something about _saam_ , but what it was precisely, he couldn’t have guessed. Everything narrowed to the movement of the Cardassian’s arm. The dull glint of the disruptor, its small, red eye directed at _him._ At his heart …

There was the unmistakable whine of phaser fire.

Stomach full of _mel-vaamel_ and veins throbbing with adrenalin, he struggled to parse the world as it spun around him, broken into frenzied fragments. A heavy thud. The blur of frost-violets and the commotion of feet. The hot tinge that played on the air as phaser met target. The only constant amidst the whir of sensation was Garak and those thick arms wrapped around him, firm. They had pulled him back—pulled him so quickly, in fact, that he had tipped over his heels, and was, absurdly, half-cradled. In Garak’s arms.

Half-cradled and _safe._ And struggling to catch up.

Slowly, each dizzy piece began to slot back into a coherent whole. The table righted, the blurs sharpened, and the noise gave way to an eerie quiet. The room all around held its breath, and he realized, chest burning, that he was holding his, too.

And he realized what had happened.

Cool against the heated skin of his arm, Garak’s weapon glinted gold—a spined and highly-compact disruptor. The Cardassian ambassador lay splayed across the table, his own weapon only partially visible in a bowl of broth.

Garak had shot the man.

Garak had shot the man and…saved him.

“Are you alright, Doctor?”

All the burning, desperate adrenaline turned hot and sweet as honey when he met those eyes, so close.

His heart hammered.

God, those eyes. They were so blue. Almost…almost crystalline. And they were looking at him with such genuine concern…and a curious tilt of the head…

Garak had really _saved_ him.

“Doctor?” He began to release his grip.

Julian reached out and kept his arms in place.

The kiss, when it happened, was entirely without thought. He grabbed at the back of Garak’s head and pressed their lips together with a hunger so great he actually half-moaned in relief. Garak stiffened momentarily, meeting that vocalization with his own yelp of surprise, but, when Julian snaked an arm around to brace against Garak’s shoulders, Garak rallied, opening to the onslaught and meeting Julian’s tongue with a sigh of his own.

A confused throb of alcohol and adrenaline and lust swirled through and around this. This kiss. These arms. Those lips. Everything trembled. As the kiss deepened, his whole body ached.

Damn, he’d been right. Garak really _did_ know how to do _everything._

Kira cleared her throat, but he didn’t give a damn. Garak tasted too good. So much better than he’d imagined, with hints of _mel-vaamel_ and _kava_ and a bitter taste that might have been native Garak. What was more, that same inaudible but very tangible hiss was rumbling between them. In the muscles under his hands, Julian could feel the coil of a predator fighting the urge to spring, to _possess_ —

“Gentlemen.”

Something in his brain registered this. Registered surprise.

Was that…Odo?

“If you wouldn’t mind…”

The surprise was enough to make Julian, reluctantly, pull back. The Constable was looking at them from the other side of the table, arms crossed.

Apparently some of those pieces hadn’t quite slotted into place after all.

At the sudden feeling he’d missed something, Julian took a step back, straightening fully.

Odo had told him he wouldn’t be attending the gala. Ambassador Troi had mentioned it several times herself. Something about monitoring preparations for the dignitaries’ departures from the station…

Yet here he was, managing to ruin what had been a real _moment_.

“I thought we agreed no weapons, Garak,” Odo said with a frown.

“Yes, well, luckily for you, I regarded that as more of a…suggestion.” Garak smoothed at his hair which had become decidedly mussed. “Besides, I thought we agreed that ‘ _saam’_ would be your signal to transform and save the day…?”

Odo growled. “There was some confusion in the kitchen about which bottle of _saam_ was me and which was, well, not.”

Signal?  

Oh…oh no. This was beginning to fill him with an awful suspicion that…

The whirring of his augment brain caught up, and another piece found its proper place.

Of course. Of-fucking-course. Ambassador Troi had told him from the very start.

“There really _was_ a threat on the conference.” He said this at Garak as if in accusation. “Odo asked for your help.”

Garak’s face closed, unreadable.

“Actually _I_ asked for Mister Garak’s help,” Ambassador Troi cut in. “Once Odo told me about Mister Garak’s intelligence background, I thought he might be helpful in puzzling out which of the ambassadors wanted the First Minister dead.”

“The First…Minister.” Oh God. Or Prophets. Or whoever it was that obviously hated him so very, very much. The Cardassian hadn’t been shooting at _him._ Of _course_ he hadn’t. “He was shooting at the First Minister.”

 He took another step away from Garak.

“You _were_ close to the line of fire,” Garak said in an obvious attempt to console him. Somehow it only made it worse.

He clearly wasn’t the only one still at a loss. The other dignitaries seemed every bit as confused,  Admiral Rolal included. “What would the Cardassians have to gain by antagonizing the Bajoran government _and_ their Alpha Quadrant allies?” She picked the abandoned phase disruptor out of its bowl, handing it to Odo with a doubtful expression.  “I would think, given their war with the Klingons, they would be as eager to strengthen alliances as we are.”

Odo took the dripping disruptor with a polite nod. “I think we’ll find that our ‘Cardassian ambassador’ is anything but. I’d guess the only ridge he has is the one down his forehead.”

A Klingon?

Julian scrubbed his face with his hands, trying to steady himself. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. Not an hour ago, he’d been fondling a lovely Cardassian with nothing more than _mel-vaamel_ and the terrace on his mind. And now… _this?_

Odo’s expression was infuriatingly stoic. “They stand to gain the most by alienating Cardassia from her allies. A logical deduction.”

“Whatever he is, he’s not Cardassian.” Garak watched with obvious disdain as two Bajoran security officers lifted the unconscious body from the table and carried it from the hall. “He couldn’t explain the most basic customs, he gave one of the worst speeches I’ve ever had the misfortune to hear, and he showed no reaction whatsoever to…to events that might have proved shocking to Cardassian eyes.”

It wasn’t hard for Julian to fill in the blank Garak had covered over. The ambassador hadn’t reacted to the _display_ he and Garak had made on the dance floor.

Even that had been a ploy. A test. Garak hadn’t been watching him: he’d been watching to see if the ambassador would react.

“Actually, Ambassador Troi deserves the credit,” Garak said, sparing him a brief, nervous glance, before he continued explaining to the First Minister. “She alerted me earlier in the evening that something felt…off about him, but we needed to be entirely sure, of course.”

Julian recalled Garak’s intense conversation with her as they danced. Oh, he was going to need more Kardasi curses…

“I couldn’t read him well at all,” Ambassador Troi explained. “Everything was so…chaotic. Not Cardassian in the least. Cardassians always have such impeccably ordered minds.”

Though he hadn’t thought it possible, his stomach dropped further. Oh…oh no.

But it made sense. Perfect-bloody-sense. “You can read Garak.”

Ambassador Troi was silent. From her, silence was the surest admission of guilt.

“So…so you knew the whole time that…that we weren’t really…” The last piece clicked into place. “No, it was more than that. You maneuvered me into this…”

Garak put his hands up as if approaching an agitated animal. “We needed a reasonable explanation for my being here, Doctor.”

The whole thing had been a farce from the beginning.

“You could have just _told_ me!”

“Forgive me, Doctor Bashir,” Ambassador Troi said. The pity in her eyes was most unwelcome. “But you are quite possibly the most readable humanoid I’ve ever met, with or without telepathy. Garak suggested it might be easier if you thought it was real, and you…you didn’t have to pretend.”

 “’Didn’t have to pretend’? But I _was_ pretending! I mean it’s not as if—“

Ambassador Troi’s look stopped him mid-sentence, its meaning entirely clear. _There’s no point in denying it, dear…_

And of course there wasn’t. Every one of the hundred people in the dining hall had seen him grab the man and snog him within an inch of his life. If they hadn’t been interrupted, Julian wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t have dragged Garak from the room by the front of that infuriatingly stylish _mijast_ without ever separating their mouths.

So, no, there was no point in denying that his feelings for Garak were real. Apparently, they were the only thing was.

“So this _whole_ thing was just…a cover. A ruse.” He swallowed. “A lie.” He’d been a first-class idiot. How had he let himself believe that this was some sort of budding romance? That anything involving Garak could be even remotely true? “I should have known better to expect anything but lies from _you_.”

“Doctor, I didn’t intend for you to…”

“To _what,_ Garak? To actually fall for you? To kiss you in front of a room full of a hundred people?” He needed to be anywhere but here. If he stood looking at Garak’s face any longer he had the distinct feeling he might punch him.  “Well, congratulations on your impeccable _operation_. You can bloody well find someone else to look at that phaser burn!”

Tears had begun to bunch at the back of his throat. He had to get out before they made him look any more absurd.

“Doctor, you’re behaving in a ridiculous fashion. If you were under the impression—"

Ambassador Troi laughed. It was loud and unexpected enough that Garak stopped, and everyone turned to look at her.

She laughed again.

“Well I’m glad _someone_ is amused,” Julian snapped, throwing his napkin onto the table and preparing to make as dignified an exit as he could muster.

“Wait, Doctor Bashir, please.”

He turned back to see Ambassador Troi grinning from ear to ear, hand held out as if to stop him. Laughter still lingered around her eyes. “Did…did you ever finish that last play Mister Garak recommended?”

What? What was she….?

“Just now, Mister Garak was having a rather…interesting thought about it. About the end of that play. And that you hadn’t finished it. And that this all…served you right…?”

The annoyed noise Garak made and the sudden change of his face from smug to worried was enough to make Julian turn back to the table fully.

“ _The Thousand Faces of Legate Haras’st_? No, I didn’t finish it. It was—”

Oh.

Oh wait.

Garak’s story to the Bolian ambassador that evening came back in an abrupt but beautiful flash.

When he turned to look at Garak, Garak had gone completely still.

 “Let me guess…it’s mid-Akleenite?”

He didn’t take his eyes from Garak, but the smile in Ambassador Troi’s voice was audible. “Mister Garak could just as easily have accompanied _me_ to this event, you know. But _this_ was the solution he devised.”

The look on Garak’s face was worth everything that had happened in the last five minutes. In the last three days. In the last four sodding years.

“Don’t be fooled, Doctor. He isn’t pretending. He may be a skilled liar, but in this…”  

The flutter resurfaced as he met blue eyes. Blue eyes filled with uncertainty. With discomfort.  And fear. He’d never thought to see Garak…was he _nervous_?

Julian might have burst.  

Maybe it had been a lie. Maybe lies really were all he could expect from Elim Garak.

But as Garak had tried to tell him years ago, even the lies…

No, _especially_ the lies.

Julian smiled and stepped closer once again. He hadn’t been rehearsing it for weeks, as Garak had, but still…

He offered his palm forward, hoping to strike the right note. “‘ _The gentle seam where palm meets palm/knits fast the lines of mine and yours…”_

The best and worst seconds ticked by, sweet as _mel-vaamel_. Tears teetered just behind his eyes.

Garak matched his step, closing the distance. “ _The heated press of our two breasts/new life into our Union breathes.’”_ He pressed his palm to Julian’s.

Relief flooded those blue eyes, and Julian allowed himself a few beautiful seconds of it. A few seconds before he made the move. After all, there was certainly no one to be scandalized now…

Carefully, doing his very best to steady his hand, he let his thumb slide down the scaled expanse of Garak’s thumb ever so slightly. A caress. A fondle. A hint of impropriety. Not footsie, exactly, but a Cardassian translation.

Garak’s smile was small, but it was a rare bit of truth. Rare and…

There was that word again— _perfect._

Across the table, Ambassador Troi cooed something about love, wrapping herself around a stern Constable Odo so thoroughly that she might have been the shapeshifter. Kira leaned into Shakaar with a  light kiss. Several tables over, he caught a glimpse of Jadzia giving him a vigorous thumbs up, while Miles lifted his flask in cheers.

In fact, the abundance of contented _ahh_ ing around them seemed to remind Garak, suddenly, that every set of eyes in the hall was on them. He stepped back uneasily. “Yes, well…Doctor Bashir— _Julian_ —perhaps you’d care to join me on the terrace? I believe both of us could use some…fresh air.”

There was no way Julian was going to let anyone or anything stop them this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is! I must admit, I have absolutely no idea how this ending will land, but I hope it's both as satisfying and tooth-rotting as I intended it to be :) 
> 
> Thank you so so so much to everyone who has read along, kudosed, and commented. I am more gratified than I can say that so many people enjoyed this! Please do let me know what you thought of the ending (she said, biting her nails...)
> 
> ADDED: In the comments below and also on tumblr, I added a short addition to the story for those who wanted to see a bit of [what happened on the terrace](https://alphacygni-8.tumblr.com/post/181719736966/bonus-feature). Enjoy!
> 
> Also, two incredibly, jaw-droppingly talented fan artists have reduced me to a pile of squealing glee by posting art for this fic over on tumblr. [Kaelio](https://kaelio.tumblr.com/) gifted me with [this gorgeous drawing of Julian and Garak dance-fondling ](https://kaelio.tumblr.com/post/181389475711/merry-christmas-for-alphacygni-8-of-course-her) from Chapter 6, and [stunnerstorm](https://stunnerstorm.tumblr.com/) drew an equally awesome [Lwaxana, Garak, and Julian](https://tmblr.co/ZWQJtu2f4P_KF) from Chapter 1. I am humbled by such talent and kindness!
> 
> ALSO ADDED: The phenomenal [stunnerstorm](https://stunnerstorm.tumblr.com/) has graced us with another FANTASTIC illustration: this time [a series depicting this chapter's big kiss!](https://stunnerstorm.tumblr.com/post/181827633697/i-had-a-lot-of-fun-drawing-out-this-little) It is a thing of BEAUTY and squeeeeeals.
> 
> And, of course, if tumblr is your sort of thing, you can always [say hi to me there](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/alphacygni-8) as well!
> 
> Thanks again to everyone for enjoying this along with me! Have a happy 2019 and LLAP!
> 
> -AC


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